


Want It Flowing Through My Streams

by screwstyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (sort of), Alpha Louis, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Tennis, Anal Sex, Bad Boy Louis, Fluff, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Harry, Self-Lubrication, Smut, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Tennis AU, Wimbledon - Freeform, for such a long fic there should defo be more tags lol, sports AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26216251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwstyles/pseuds/screwstyles
Summary: Wimbledon ABO AU: Harry has just qualified for his first Grand Slam, and he’s prepared to make the most of it – that is, until his heat unexpectedly hits him only a few days before his first match. And it’s just his luck that Louis Tomlinson, the resident bad boy of British tennis, is the only person around to help him.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan/Shawn Mendes
Comments: 30
Kudos: 471





	Want It Flowing Through My Streams

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first fic that isn’t for an exchange or a fest (and the longest one, too!), and it feels odd to put out something where I actually came up with the plot lol. With that said, it’s also a bit of an emotional one for me – this was finished just as I got more into another fandom, and it feels like somewhat of a parting gift to myself (and hopefully whoever reads it!). 
> 
> You don’t need to know anything about tennis to read this – except that Louis’s character is based on Nick Kyrgios, who is a character and a half and I love him dearly. I got lots of details and bits from his antics, and if Louis does it in this fic, odds are it’s a real thing that happened, so all the credit goes to NK. 
> 
> Title is from Wake Up by Travis Scott

Harry breathes in. Out. In. Out again. The only thing he hears is the rush of blood in his veins, the rapid beating of his pulse in his temples. He’s vaguely aware of the hum of the audience, of the sweat pooling at the backs of his knees, the neutral smell of the umpire a few meters away, but in this moment, those things fade into the background – it’s only him and the ball. Just like he practised. He bounces the ball once, twice, and serves. 

He doesn’t see where the ball goes, but he sees his opponent running towards it, stretching his racket out and then doubling over in disappointment as the ball goes past him untouched. It’s an ace. Harry’s won. Harry’s going through to the first round of Wimbledon. 

He releases the grasp he has on his racket and lets it tumble to the ground, pumping his fist in the air and letting his body relax for the first time all day, tension slowly turning into relief and happiness. He’s made it. He’s finally qualified for his first Grand Slam. All of his hard work, all the years spent watching tournament after tournament on TV and then in person and always dreaming of being there on-court himself – all coming down to this moment. 

Harry lets out an incredulous laugh before looking at his family and coaching team in the stands, all hugging each other in congratulations, proudly looking at Harry still out on the court. He quickly walks up to the net to shake his opponent’s hand, thanking him for a good match, before doing the same to the umpire and then finally heading towards the stands. He jumps over the low fence separating the pitch from the audience and throws himself straight at his mum, hugging her tightly while they both shake from excitement. 

“You did it!” Anne shouts in his ear, squeezing him tightly just like he’s doing to her. 

“I did it! I can’t believe I’m gonna play Wimbledon!” he responds just as enthusiastically, letting her go to proceed to give the same treatment to the rest of his family, his best friend, and his coach. They all react in the same manner, each more excited than the other, and by the time Harry has hugged each member of his little support team, the rest of the audience has dispersed, the match officials waiting on him to start packing up to get the next match started. Right. Because he’s not the only one qualifying. 

*** 

Once Harry has showered and changed into regular clothes, he meets his coach, Nick, in one of the conference rooms of the club grounds, where Nick briefly talks him through his highlights and lowlights and gives him pointers on the bits of technique he’s yet to fully master. After half an hour of dutiful listening and mental note-taking, Nick sends him off to celebrate with his family, but not without a brief warning to at least think of his meal plan. Harry widens his eyes slightly and sticks his tongue out at him, using all the Omega charm he can muster until Nick fondly rolls his eyes, and heads out himself. Really, sometimes it comes too easily to him to mess with Alphas’ heads. 

“Finally, I’m starving!” Gemma exclaims as she sees him nearing where his team is laying on the grass in wait of him. She makes an exaggerated swooning gesture as if she will faint lest she is fed right away, but she’s also comfily spread out on a blanket on the grass, looking more content than usual, so Harry isn’t too concerned. “Another minute and you’ll have to scrape my withered body off the ground.” 

“That would serve you right for wrapping my favourite racket with overgrip that had penises on it,” Harry sighs, moving to block the sun where she’s clearly trying to tan. 

“That was custom made! Paid twenty quid for it, _plus_ shipping,” she says like Harry should be _impressed_ or something. He’s not (he is, but only by how she managed to wrap it on unnoticed when he practically sleeps with his racket). “Well, you can pay me back by finding me a husband now that you’re in the big leagues.” 

Harry makes a show of laughing over the top. 

“I cannot imagine anyone tolerating you for longer than two minutes at a time,” he replies. 

“I have raised two vultures,” Anne mutters, not bothering to look at whether the rest of the family will follow as she turns to lead them all to the car. They do, of course, not only because she’s an Alpha, but because she’s mum, and Harry is nothing if not a good son. Brother, on the other hand… 

He waits for Gemma to sit up and start gathering her things to accidentally hit her forehead with his tennis bag. It’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. 

*** 

Harry is the first one to go through from the qualifiers, which means he has approximately a week before his first-round match. Nick plans to have Harry on an even stricter training routine than usual since this will be Harry´s introduction to the general public, and appealing to the general public means publicity and attention from the press, which means sponsorships. Frankly, Harry doesn’t think he is quite there yet, but there’s no arguing with Nick once he sets his mind on something. After all, he was the one who first brought up the possibility of Harry qualifying this year, which Harry had initially scoffed at, so maybe he’s onto something after all. 

His first morning is spent on the court, perfecting his volleys and getting used to the feel of training at the All England Club. Since he qualified, he has been allowed to train on the grounds themselves rather than his homecourt, and he has been flustered at the famous players he has seen around the courts preparing for their own matches once the actual tournament kicks off. It’s not like he thought he would never make it to play against them, but he didn’t think it would be quite this soon. 

At least he has Niall by his side. 

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your match?” Harry asks, shooting Nick a smile as he jogs from his position at the net to the side where his best friend is leaning on the railing. Niall aims a quick grin at him, but Harry can read the slight nerves behind it. As he comes closer, he realises he didn’t need to look for clues on his face – the charged energy is practically radiating off him, even beta as he may be. 

“Nah, I’ve got this. Just have the usual pre-match jitters,” Niall shrugs. “Helps to watch you practise, distracts me a bit from what’s to come.” 

Harry hums and squeezes Niall’s shoulder sympathetically, wishing his Omega hormones could do something to calm him. He’s had the same dilemma since he first met Niall at the youth club when he was twelve, having just presented and not ashamed to use his charms; only the first time he wanted to comfort Niall before his match, he realised he had no effect on him, and not only could he not soothe his friend, he was now anxious on his behalf, too. 

“You’re playing Breslin, right?” Harry asks, to which Niall nods in thought. “He’s a good player, but you’re better. I don’t have a single doubt you’ll smash it. And I already have a gym session in mind for us for tomorrow. Can’t make it if you don’t win,” Harry reassures him, only to receive a groan in response. 

“You’re awful. I come here to be cheered up and you talk to me about gym. If you weren’t a tennis player, you’d be one of those annoying university kids who spend more time lifting weights than in lectures,” Niall laughs, and it’s with less tension in his shoulders. Mission accomplished. 

“No way. I would make a great pretentious fine art hippie,” Harry counters. 

“That you would,” Niall agrees. “You’ll be there to watch?” 

Harry nods. “Of course.” 

*** 

Niall’s match goes off without a hitch, beating Breslin in straight sets. Niall is in good form, doesn’t make too many unforced errors or let nerves take over, which means that 8am on Tuesday finds them on the treadmill in the gym located on the grounds. Endurance training is always Harry’s least favourite, but it’s a necessary evil, so he puts up with it. 

He watches the distance meter climb up by the second, concentrating on that rather than the fast beating of his heart and the slight ache in his calves. When he glances over at Niall, he has his eyes closed and is tapping a beat against one of the handles of the treadmill. As if he can feel Harry’s gaze, he cracks one eye open. 

“Come on, fifteen minutes left. That’s barely anything,” Niall encourages, clearly seeing the unhappy expression on Harry’s face. Harry scrunches his nose in response. He’s hot, and he feels sticky from the sweat dripping down his neck, and he’d much rather be doing weights. 

“I hate treadmills,” he complains, reducing the time left on the counter to ten minutes. Nick will never know. Niall raises his eyebrows at him but doesn’t say anything. 

Harry gives it another couple of minutes before slowing to a walk, and then hopping off the machine all together. The timer still has three minutes left on it, but it’s not like that will be the difference of him winning or losing his next match. 

He takes a sip from his water bottle. “I’ll go do some resistance bands,” he tells Niall, not waiting for a reply before swinging his gym towel onto his shoulder and making his way downstairs to the dedicated area. The gym isn’t crazy busy yet, but enough so that he can smell players’ hormones in the air. Funny, that; he thought most, if not all, used neutralisers as a courtesy to their colleagues to not distract each other. 

He walks on, fully intent on ignoring everyone around him and chucking it up to the novelty of the space around him. He nearly succeeds, too, taking shallow breaths in and out, until he reaches the other end of the gym where the stairs are located, and he can’t block the scents out. 

There seems to be one scent in particular that he picks up on, sweet like honey but minty fresh at the same time with a hint of citrus, and he has to breathe out heavily to get it out of his nostrils so he can concentrate on doing one step at a time. It doesn’t help, and instead only gets stronger once he finds himself in the basement. It’s nearly tempting, with the unknown Alpha’s scent surrounding him, to abandon his training and go look for the person making Harry feel all sorts of unfocused. 

Turns out he needn’t have worried about finding the Alpha. Right next to where Harry is supposed to start working out in a minute or so, one and only Louis Tomlinson is atop an exercise ball doing sit-ups. 

Harry, of course, has heard of Louis Tomlinson. Hell, the entire tennis world has heard of Louis Tomlinson, and even those not part of it. Louis is somewhat of a controversial personality, making headlines for his attitude and foul mouth as much as for his talent ever since he started playing on the ATP World Tour. He has a bit of a temper and isn’t afraid to show it, which means the press and the audience have formed a love-hate relationship with him, donning him “the bad boy of tennis”. Of course, Harry also has a raging crush on him. 

He has never met him in person before, but his scent and the way he looks up close is having an effect on Harry. He’s turned away from him, facing the mirror, and with each lift Harry can see the concentration on his face, the way his fringe is stuck to his forehead, the flex of his thighs in an effort to keep his balance on the ball. 

As Harry nears, Louis pauses his rep of sit-ups and adjust his position on the ball so he’s now sitting directly on top of it, legs spread and elbows propped on his knees to lean forward. He locks eyes with Harry and gives him a small nod, then scrunches his nose in an expression Harry can’t quite decipher. 

“Shouldn’t be here, should you?” he asks, vaguely gesturing towards Harry. 

Harry narrows his eyes. He never thought Louis would be a dick to him, but guess people can surprise you. He furrows his eyebrows. 

“I qualified same as anyone else. Doesn’t mean I can’t be here just because I’m not an established player,” he says, his hackles rising a bit, but he only receives a calm smile in return. It only irritates Harry more. 

“Not what I meant,” Louis shakes his head. Something in his scent changes, becomes more charged, making Harry’s inner Omega want to snuggle up to him and inhale until he smells nothing else. Unlike his words, his scent is now comforting. 

Harry huffs, turning his back to Louis. He begins to rotate his shoulders as a warm-up, leaving Louis to go back to his own training, but it seems that while he’s out of sight, he’s certainly not out of mind. It’s like Harry’s body attunes to him, listening for any sign of Louis tensing his muscles or the steady breaths coming out with each press-up. Harry hasn’t brought his headphones, thinking he would be with Niall the whole time, and he’s regretting it now – it’s like his brain has nothing else to think about but Louis Tomlinson and his judgemental attitude. 

As he picks up a stretch band and loops it around his heel, he can’t help but take a quick look over his shoulder. He’s not prepared to meet Louis’ blue eyes, staring at him from where’s he’s currently lying upper back pressed to the ball, the rest of his torso taut and legs at a ninety-degree angle, arms crossed behind his head. In other circumstances Harry might catalogue the way he looks for other purposes, to be dug up at night when he’s alone, but instead he’s caught by the steely gaze holding him in place. He feels something hot spread through his body, liquid and urgent, but tamps down on it mentally. 

“Are you here with someone? Do you want me to get you home?” Louis asks, and God, this guy can’t quit while he’s ahead, can he? 

Harry shakes his head, furrowing his brow and pulling angrily at the ends of the band, tightly fisted in his grip. “What’s your problem? I don’t need to be accompanying someone to have the right to exercise here. Just because I don’t have a fancy title or don’t make headlines with every match I play doesn’t mean I can’t use this gym.” 

Harry swallows and tears his eyes away from Louis, trying his best to focus on the set of reps Nick had told him to do this morning. He can still sense him behind himself, and he gets about half way through his first shoulder press before he feels Louis’ smell fill up his lungs. If possible, it’s even better now, unless Harry’s mind is playing tricks on him and trying to make this gym session completely intolerable. As if the ache in every single muscle all over his body wasn’t enough. 

He realises the sounds of Louis doing his press-ups never resumed, and when he reluctantly looks behind himself again, he finds him positioning the ball on the stand near the wall. As if on cue, Louis looks up, and the resulting bite of his lower lip makes Harry want to feel those lips on his skin. Harry curses his train of thought – he doesn’t want to be having these mental images about someone who has shown nothing but rudeness and disrespect towards him. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he hears, and then Louis is making his way out of the basement floor. 

Harry shakes his head to clear his brain of any remaining imaginary visions and gets back to his workout. The rest of the gym session goes by smoothly, and when Niall joins him some time later, Harry has completed his set twice over uninterrupted. He’s surprised to look around and find the surrounding area is packed with other players. 

*** 

The next morning, Harry wakes up with his body on fire. Not literally, but Harry thinks that when he’s forced up at 6am, he deserves to be a bit dramatic. His neck is covered in sweat from the _very_ pleasant dream he has just woken up from, and his whole body thrums with energy that is borderline annoying. Harry doesn’t _want_ to be so alert when he’s barely just cracked his eyes open, but clearly there is some sort of disconnect between his muscles and his brain when he feels like he could boil out of his skin. 

He gets dressed in record time and is out of the hotel barely twenty minutes later, banana in one hand and a disposable cup filled with his morning coffee in the other. He’s feeling wired up in the best way possible, and already he knows today’s training session is going to be great. 

He isn’t actually allowed to get on court before his scheduled practise time, and so he spends the few minutes waiting for Nick on the pavement laid out between courts. It’s early enough that no games have started yet and there’s barely anyone milling around, so Harry doesn’t consider it for too long before he decides to work off his energy right there. He starts off with jumping jacks, quickly progressing to burpees, and that’s where Nick finds not long after, pushing himself up off the ground and into the air, thighs burning but mind finally somewhat calmer. 

He sniffs the air as he gets closer to Harry, greeting him with a customary nod. 

“You stink,” he says to Harry, ushering him onto the court and following closely behind. Always perfectly on time, that one. “You forget to take your neutralisers?” 

Harry thinks it over – he had woken up, headed to the en-suite to use the toilet and brush his teeth, and barely had the patience to get dressed before heading downstairs to grab his breakfast from the restaurant. Seems he did forget something, then. 

“Shit, sorry, Nick,” he responds sympathetically, rolling his lips in. “Is it strong? I can go borrow some, I’m sure someone would have it nearby.” 

“Nah, you’re good,” Nick shakes his head but scrunching his nose a little. “A bit overwhelming, but nothing I’m not used to. Might be an advantage competing though,” he wiggles his eyebrows teasingly. “Mess with all these Alphas’ heads.” 

Harry bursts out laughing, picking up a tennis ball from the provided bucket, and tosses it at Nick. 

“Piss off. Won’t be let within five miles of the court, and like I want to beat my opponents with my _scent_ ,” Harry hums, then pretends to think about it. “Can you imagine the headlines? They could call me _The Tennis Scentsation_.” 

Harry giggles at his own joke, incredibly pleased with the pun he thought up on the spot. 

“Absolutely awful, even by your standards.” Nick rolls his eyes. “Let’s see your serve.” 

“Gonna serve it in more than one way,” Harry sticks out his tongue, dutifully making his way to the back of the court. 

“One more pun and your serve will be coached by someone else.” 

*** 

After Harry has lunch and spends his afternoon locked up in a room with Nick and his assistant coach, Jeff, studying up on his potential first-round opponents, he is let out of sight (if not mind and obligatory WhatsApp availability) for a couple of hours before his evening session. He spends the time wandering the club grounds and memorising what participating in his first Grand Slam feels like. Realistically, it’s not that different from any of the other large-scale tournaments, but the air around him feels charged in a way he’s never quite felt before. 

He plays tourist for a bit, visiting the orchard and doing a tour of the couple of statues around him. It’s relatively peaceful yet, not many actual audience members milling about, and he can already foresee himself missing this come Monday. He’s more used to the calm atmosphere of small events, and the few big ones he has played he’s not had a chance to get accustomed to. He hopes that will change. 

Walking in thought, he finds himself at the rose arbour, and once he snaps a photo or seven, he sits down on one of the benches carefully arranged underneath it. The afternoon sun is really warming his chest where the rays reach his skin, and once he’s posted one of the pictures on Instagram, he closes his eyes, relaxing into the comfortable setting. He plans to stay like that for a few minutes, but it’s like the moment he shuts his eyelids, his mind goes into overdrive. His body thrums with the need to release tension, his skin too hot even when he slides onto the shadowy part of the bench, his heartbeat speeding up. Well, at least he gave it a shot. 

Defeated, he stands from his place under the arbour and dejectedly lets his legs lead him to the gym. He had showered and changed into clean clothing before lunch, and so all he needs to do is swipe his players’ card to be ready for a workout. 

Except he doesn’t get far into the gym until a familiar scent hits him, and his knees weaken. He trips over his own legs not a meter from the turnstiles, and the moment his shins connect with the ground, his whole body trembles. 

_Fuck, fuck, not now, come on_ , he thinks as the unmistakeable fever of his heat creeps on and settles in his stomach, blurring his vision. He nearly sobs out when he feels strong hands on his waist, helping him up and supporting him as he sits back on his bum, fingers digging into the arms of the Alpha next to him. Not just any Alpha, he notices belatedly – Louis. 

“Hey, Harry, are you staying at the players’ hotel? Come on up, I’ll help you get to your room,” he says calmly, although Harry can hear the words have come through gritted teeth. He bites his lip in shame, squeezing his eyes closed as another shiver wrecks through his body at the voice washing over him. And then realisation comes over him, sinking in painfully. 

“You weren’t being rude,” he whispers, exhaling shakily and trying to get his body under control. 

“Hmm?” Louis asks, either confused or not having heard Harry. It takes Harry a moment to find the words and spell them out, filtering out his thoughts of _shit_ _shit_ _shit_ and _god_ _I can feel how wet I am_. 

“Yesterday, you weren’t being rude to me. You could smell my heat,” Harry sniffles, mind cooperating slowly. Saying the word out loud somehow makes it more real, even though he can’t rationally deny what is happening to his body right now. He holds tightly onto the last of his coherency, unwilling to let go while he still has some control. Shit, Louis smells so good. “You were concerned for me.” 

Louis knits his eyebrows together. “And I’m concerned for you now. We need to get you out of the public and inside. Can you stand?” 

Harry shakes his head no, his legs feeling like jelly, but he places one palm on Louis’ shoulder and slowly starts to get up. 

“There you go, darling, well done. Are you staying in the players’ hotel?” Louis repeats the question and wraps a hand around Harry’s waist to support his weight as they slowly start moving out of the gym and outside. Harry has an urge to tuck his nose into Louis’ neck, to inhale and stay there for a minute or an hour. His tennis shorts are too tight for this. 

He feels Louis shiver next to him and he blushes slightly. “Harry, please, you have to keep it together. We’re not far.” 

Harry is confused for a second until he comes to and realises he’s just scented Louis, without his consent no less, and embarrassment fills him to his core. God, he needs to get a grip on his instincts, and even if Louis doesn’t look put off (quite the opposite, in fact), Harry refuses to be someone who does that without permission. God knows he’s had it done to him too many times, and each time he has wanted to punch the Alpha in question. 

He closes his eyes, still holding onto Louis’ shoulders, and turns his head the other way, inhaling some less pheromone-dense air. It helps him somewhat, the thoughts in his head stopping the incessant, tumultuous swirling, and he looks back at Louis. 

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to. I promise I’m not like that,” he breathes out, biting his lip when he sees the slight flush at the top of Louis’ cheeks. He thinks if he reached out and touched, his skin would be hot to the touch. _Come on, Harry, counterproductive_. “I’m staying at the hotel. Room 211.” 

It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the hotel, a small complex near the tennis grounds that’s converted to a players’ village each summer for a couple of weeks from qualifiers to the finals. It’s usually a brisk walk away, but as Harry and Louis start making their way over, Harry realises this time will be a bit different, starting with the fire low in his groin and ending with the man supporting most of his weight. 

“Do you have anyone I should alert? Your coach, team, maybe?” Louis asks as they exit the grounds from the side entrance. Harry’s grateful for the question, distracting him from the feelings welling up inside his body at the moment. 

“My coach, Nick. We’re meant to have a training session this evening. I’ll give you his number once we get to the hotel.” Louis nods at that and Harry quietens. They walk in silence, and the fresh air frees up his mind enough to let Harry have a think about the situation. 

He wasn’t due for a heat for another three weeks, just a week after the tournament would finish. He’s not exactly expecting to make it into the second week, nevermind the tail-end of the games, but at the same time Harry thinks (or thought, rather, with events progressing as they are) it’s a lucky sign that his biology cooperated with his ambitions. Nick scheduled a break into Harry’s training plan for that time, and like every three months since Harry matured enough, it’s been a clockwork of a plan. Harry’s never had fluctuations like this, never early or maximum a day late from when he predicts his heats would take place. It’s unfortunate, then, that the first time his calculations are off is the first time he’s ever qualified for a Grand Slam. 

Fuck, his Grand Slam. Somehow, in the last minutes of the realisation of his heat hitting him and the ensuing panic, he hasn’t at all considered how it would impact his career. He’s only trained for this his whole life. Tennis _is_ his whole life, and he’s dreamed of playing tournaments like this one since he was old enough to understand what they were. And now, his stupid bloody biology goes and messes it all up. The shortest heat he’s ever had lasted five days, and even if that’s quick enough to end before his first match that could fall on a Monday, the recovery would mean he’d be completely out of it for another two days. God, Harry hates being powerless to his own heat, especially when there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Except. 

He glances at Louis, who is helping him over the zebra crossing, and who turns around to give him a reassuring smile as if he can feel Harry’s eyes on him. That basically seals it for him. He’s got one shot, and damn if he’s not going to try and do everything he can. 

For the remainder of the walk, Harry’s in his head, working out the timings and silently thanking whichever deity allowed his head to be clear for this. He knows from previous experience that the moment the second wave hits, he will have little brainpower left. 

In the distance Harry can make out the white brick of the hotel building, and knowing he won’t have more than a few minutes before they enter, he takes the plunge. 

“Louis.” He waits until Louis looks at him again, the clear blue of his eyes meeting Harry’s. He swallows. Despite the determination he was feeling just a moment ago, he’s not sure how to phrase it, and ends up just looking at Louis with a serious expression on his face. In the end, he has to force the words out. “Will you help me through my heat?” 

There’s little physical reaction from Louis. The colour of his eyes darkens by a shade or two, but otherwise his face remains blank, unreadable. The hand that’s still on Harry’s waist tenses, but Harry thinks he only notices because every fibre of his being is currently working overtime. 

Louis keeps his voice even as he answers. “No. You’re going into it already, and you’re not thinking straight. I won’t take advantage of you.” 

Harry shakes his head, fully prepared for the initial rejection. He may not really know Louis, and despite what his reputation would suggest, Harry feels totally calm and safe with him. He wouldn’t, if Louis had agreed right away. He turns to look at him directly, no longer standing side by side. 

“I know what you’re thinking. That I just wanna get fucked, that I would ask any Alpha to help me through it. That my thoughts aren’t rational, and you’d be using me when I can’t resist you. Am I correct?” Harry looks at Louis, who nods slightly. He’s biting his lower lip. 

“You wouldn’t –,“ Louis starts, but Harry beats him to it. 

“I’m not asking because I’m desperate, not that I’m not,” he laughs slightly, fingers twisting, but schools his features quickly. “I’m asking you because if I don’t spend my heat with an Alpha, I’ve just wasted my first Grand Slam qualification. I’m asking because my body won’t follow the plan I set out for it, and I have to do everything I can to make it happen for me. I’m asking because you were the only Alpha who tried to protect me when I was walking around with my hormones full-on, even if I was oblivious to it and on top of that rude to you at the time. I’m asking because right now, you’re walking me to the hotel, where you will ring my coach, instead of leading me into the showers at the gym.” 

He maintains firm eye contact with Louis, even if he’s tempted to look at his feet and hide from whatever emotion will show up on Louis’ face. He feels uneasy, standing in front of Louis and essentially listing reasons why he should sleep with Harry, but when Louis’ eyes darken a bit more, he thinks he’s managed to chip away at his resolve at least a bit. 

“No. You’re asking because you’re near me, and because your Omega can sense my Alpha. It’s not actually you asking.” 

Harry bursts out laughing, as inappropriate as that is. “You think my Omega gives a shit about my tennis career?” The corners of Louis’ mouth turn upwards, which Harry counts as a win. Spurred on by the little bit of progress, he gets an idea. 

He takes a step back and extracts himself from Louis, making sure there isn’t any physical contact between them. He takes a few more, ready to prove his point. It means they’re now on opposite sides of the pavement and blocking the way for anyone who might want to get past, but Harry doesn’t really care. 

“Look at me. I’m not next to you anymore, and I’m still asking. It’s not because I’m near you.” 

“I won’t do it. I have family and friends who are Omegas, and if an Alpha did to them what you’re asking me to do to you, I would rip their heads off. Don’t put me in that position,” Louis says, voice low and husky. He lets out a steady breath, the opposite of every video and interaction Harry has ever seen on court. Louis isn’t usually composed – he’s loud and explosive, hot-headed and confrontational. It pleases Harry to know that maybe it’s not so easy for him to say no, that he puts in the effort to remain calm when Harry’s struggling to be just that. 

“I’m not.” He wants to reach out and touch Louis, place his fingers on Louis’ arm, but he thinks now is not the time. “I’m asking you because I trust you, and because I want a chance to play even one game.” 

“How do I know you won’t regret it?” Louis’ jaw clenches, and Harry can practically feel he’s given in. He just needs one more push. 

Harry has just the idea. “Smell me.” 

Louis looks at him sceptically, but hesitantly steps closer to Harry when Harry takes him by his arm, pulling him in. Harry tilts his neck to the side, granting Louis access and ignoring the fact they’re in the middle of a public street. 

Harry’s fully aware this could backfire on him, that Louis could smell something other than what Harry wants him to read off his scent and decline his offer, or worse, Louis isn’t the Alpha Harry believes him to be. And yet, when Louis presses even closer and tucks his nose into Harry’s neck, all Harry feels is joy and safety. 

Louis takes a long inhale, and his fingers find purchase on Harry’s arms, digging into the flesh as he processes Harry’s scent. Having Louis this close would be intoxicating even without his creeping heat, and Harry has to focus every cell he has to not give in and go lax into Louis’s hold. 

Whatever Louis finds there, it seems to be enough. Harry can feel it before Louis says a word. 

“Fine. I’ll help you.” Louis lowers one hand to Harry’s waist and gives him a gentle squeeze, but his voice remains serious. “But if you can remember this when your next wave hits, you can always send me away and change your mind.” 

Harry nods, carefully listening to every word. 

“I know lots of Omega players and athletes are on birth control for the hormone balancing, so are you? I don’t want to risk getting you pregnant.” 

Harry nods again. 

“Okay, good. I think that’s the biggest risk you’re facing here,” Louis says in thought, clearly thinking out loud. He’s still pressed up to Harry’s neck, and Harry’s wrapped in a cloud of honey and mint and citrus, floating in it and greedily breathing it in. Louis is _scenting_ him. “Do you have any concerns?” 

Harry shakes his head and laughs at Louis’ demeanour. “Relax, you. It’s just a heat. I’m sure you’ve done this before. You won’t hurt me, and I really want this. You’re acting like it’s a business contract we’re forming here.” He smooths a hand down Louis’ back, slowly tracing his spine and letting him know just how okay he is with the situation. 

“I just don’t want to do anything that might hurt you,” Louis breathes out, finally moving his head from Harry’s neck and lifting his gaze up to his face. “You smell so good, and I don’t know much I’ll be able to communicate once you get back into it,” Louis confesses. “Nevermind that you won’t be making decisions based on logic. So, I have to be rational now.” 

He says it with such determination Harry is sure it’s not only for his benefit, but for Louis’ own. He doesn’t know much about being Alpha, but he suspects there’s an internal battle going on not dissimilar to the one he himself has experienced so many times before. Funnily though, at the moment his Omega remains settled. 

Slowly, like afraid of spooking a wild animal, Harry lifts his hands to cup Louis’ jaw, caresses one onto his neck, fingertips lightly making contact with the skin. He waits until Louis meets his eyes again. 

“I want this,” he says, and once again disregarding their whereabouts, lowers his face towards Louis’, giving him some notice of his intentions. When there’s no pushback, he proceeds to press their lips together slowly, tentatively. 

Louis’ mouth is soft, and unmoving at first, but then it’s like something inside him snaps and he’s kicked into motion, kissing Harry back. Harry does his best to put all of the gratitude and want he feels into the kiss, keeping it gentle for now, and he feels Louis dig his fingers into the soft flesh of his waist harder. 

When their mouths separate, their grips on each other remain as intense as before. 

“I want this,” Harry repeats, just to erase any trace of doubt Louis may have had left. As he says the words, he also feels a tremor in his body alerting him to the previously forgotten state of his body. 

Louis swallows visibly, and Harry finds himself inhaling more of his scent, now thicker and more prominent in the air around them. 

“We’ve got to get you inside.” 

Harry follows his lead to the hotel, walking quickly the rest of the way. There’s an underlying urgency to their steps, both to get Harry safely away from the public eyes and to find themselves some privacy for what’s to come. They easily navigate their way through the lobby, Louis shooting warning looks at anyone whom he deems to be too close to them, and if Harry wasn’t so set on getting to his room and shedding his clothes, he would find it amusing. He’s sure that if he was physically capable of it, Louis would split into two just to growl at himself to protect Harry. 

They find themselves in the room barely a minute later, Harry flinging himself on the bed as soon as the door is shut. He unlocks his phone and chucks it at Louis, who is close behind. 

“Nick’s number is saved there, you can just text him on my behalf. Maybe Niall, too.” Louis arches his eyebrows questioningly, whether at the shirt that Harry is already starting to pull off or the unfamiliar name, Harry’s not sure. He suspects it’s the latter. “My best friend,” he clarifies, thrilled at the small possibility Louis might be jealous. It’s probably nothing, though. 

Louis hums non-committedly and comes to the bed, sitting at the foot of it and placing one hand on Harry’s ankle while he types with the other. He’s not really paying attention to him otherwise, thumb rubbing a circle where they’re touching, but that’s more than enough to send an electric spark up Harry’s body. 

He uses the moment to completely rid himself of his shirt, pulling it off his body and subsequently lifting himself up to his forearms, inviting Louis in when he turns to him. Louis carefully places his phone on the bedside table, and once his eyes sweep over Harry’s torso, it gets uncomfortably hot in the room. It’s like a switch has been turned; Louis’ gaze is heavy and meaningful, lighting every inch of Harry’s skin on fire, and his breathing has slowed to deep, fast inhales that Harry unconsciously attunes to. He nearly whines out loud when their eyes meet, and shifts his hips impatiently. 

Louis chuckles in amusement. 

“You getting desperate, baby?” he asks, sliding a hand up to Harry’s knees and squeezing. Harry nods, too far gone to pretend otherwise – now that he knows Louis is there to meet his needs, he wants him on him, in him, however he can have him. 

“Yes,” Harry answers, and hisses when Louis moves his hand up to his thigh, squeezing. 

“Yes, who?” 

Harry squirms under the gaze, tries to thrust his hips up to show Louis where he wants him. His pants are getting wet, and it's only a matter of time before the slick seeps into his shorts. 

“Yes, Alpha.” Just saying those words out loud is enough to make Harry’s hole clench around nothing and blurt out another bit of slick. 

“Come here,” Louis says, and arranges his body to frame Harry’s, tangling the fingers of his free hand into Harry’s hair to lift him and crash their hungry mouths together. This time, the press of their lips is nothing like it was in the park – gone is the softness, replaced with urgency and pure, unhindered want. 

Louis bites at Harry’s lip, which makes him whine in pleasure. Louis reads correctly into the sound, bringing his body fully on top of Harry’s, aligning their crotches and pressing down with intent. 

“Fuck, Louis, you gotta do something before I fully go into it. I can’t hold on much longer,” Harry whines out against Louis’ mouth, still conscious enough to give him warning. Louis pulls at his hair softly, nearly affectionately, and smiles. 

“Yeah, I’ve got you, gonna give you what you want,” he promises. “Turn over for me, let me see your arse.” 

Harry does as he’s told, following the instructions and sliding onto his belly, face getting buried in a pillow. He feels Louis tap his thigh to lift his hips up, and once he obliges, his shorts and pants slide off in one slow movement. There’s a sharp intake of breath behind him, and the thick scent already surrounding them gets even denser, a hint of musk creeping in. 

He can’t see much from where his head is buried in the pillow, and any sensible thoughts he may have had are all clouded over by the desperation and need, now coursing through his bloodstream even more intensely. 

It’s because of that that he doesn’t know to expect it when Louis spreads his arse cheeks, inhaling loudly as the cold air hits where Harry’s slick has stuck to his cheeks and upper thighs. He hums for a second before there’s a kiss being pressed to Harry’s lower back, and then a wet tongue tentatively laps at his hole. Harry sends a quick thank you to the powers that be that he’s already lying down, or otherwise his legs would surely give in, and then he just – he just lets the overwhelming wave of the heat crash over him in its entirety, succumbing to his instincts and shutting off his mind. 

*** 

Harry comes to a dark room, the blinds shut and letting in the slightest bit of light from the outside, but not enough to clue him in as to what time it is. The window is ajar, which must be Louis’ doing to let in some fresh air, but Harry can’t remember for sure. He can’t hear much from the other side of it spare the odd chirping of a lone bird, so he guesses it must be early morning. He lies still for a few seconds, waiting for the familiar desperation to hit and his hormones to wake Louis up, but when it doesn’t come, he takes a moment to get his bearings. 

He’s lying diagonally across the bed on his back, with his side of the duvet kicked off his body. One of Louis’ hands is strewn across his lower stomach as he sniffles in his sleep, nose pressed into Harry’s shoulder, the other disappearing somewhere behind Harry. With a little wiggling Harry realises his head is propped up on top of Louis’ other arm. It should be uncomfortable, after presumably spending hours with his neck at an unnatural angle, but all Harry feels is peace at having an Alpha taking care of him. 

Not Alpha, he realises. Louis. 

His memories since Louis first got his mouth on him are hazy at best, but he distinctly recalls Louis passing him bottles of water in between rounds of fantastic, mind-blowing sex. Looking around him, his room is tidy, the clothes he last wore folded neatly on the chair next to the desk, and the bedside table closest to him has a variety of snacks on it. He can see granola bars, a half-eaten pack of baby carrots and a nearly empty bowl of mixed dried fruits at first glance, and though he remembers consuming none of it, he doesn’t feel hungry like he usually does after a heat. Must be Louis’ doing. 

Doing a visual inspection of his body without jostling Louis, he notes his body feels nice and clean, not at all like he’s used to it being when he wakes up after the fever has subsided. There’s no dried come making his skin itchy, no faint smell of sweat as if showering was the last thing on his mind, and the one strand of hair falling into eyes is giving off a pleasant, peachy scent. It’s nearly overshadowed by the powerful mix of Harry and Louis’ own hormones, but it’s definitely there. Huh. 

He doesn’t have much time to wander over how any of this happened, as Louis shifts and tightens his grip on Harry’s tummy. Harry feels the inexplicable urge to nuzzle into him, and without thinking about it too much, he indulges his instincts. He rearranges his body so they’re now both on their sides, facing each other, and brings his face into Louis’ neck. He takes a deep breath, and once his lungs are full, returns to gaze at Louis. 

Louis blinks his eyes open slowly, and finds Harry’s gaze nearly immediately. His lips morph into a smile before Harry has time to register he’s awake. 

“Could sense you’re awake. How do you feel?” he asks, bringing his other hand to cup Harry’s jaw, thumb gently tracing under his eye. Harry feels something deep inside him settle, like he was holding his breath underwater, not knowing when he could come up for air again, and has just resurfaced. 

He inches his body subtly closer towards’ Louis. 

“Good. Like I can survive a half hour without jumping you,” Harry responds, and sticks out his tongue when Louis clearly tries to hold in his laughter. Louis gives in, and they both giggle for a second, relishing the feeling of being in the cocoon of just them two. Harry didn’t know he had been worried, but as their bodies shake together, he’s pleased to see there is no awkwardness, no hesitation between them. 

Louis smirks at him. “Just a half hour? I must have done a good job, if you’re already thinking about it.” 

Harry punches his arm playfully. 

“Clearly not so much, since I’m not fully recovered yet,” he jokes back, at which Louis pinches his waist where his palm is settled. He waits until they’ve both calmed down a bit, then reaches for Louis’ hand with his own, entwining their fingers between their chests. 

“I’m much better. My body’s not on fire, and I can actually hold a conversation, which I doubt I’ve been able to do in the last few days, right?” He waits for Louis’ confirming nod. “I think we’re past the worst, unless I get another wave in the next ten minutes or so. But I feel back to normal.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Louis responds, squeezing Harry’s hand, and a light wave of his scent encompasses Harry from head to toe. 

“Thank you, Louis. I don’t know what I would have done without you, if you hadn’t helped me out,” Harry starts, and Louis goes to interrupt him, but Harry presses on. “Heats without a partner are awful, and this one particularly I wanted to get over with and done as soon as possible. If I was alone, I’d still be unconscious to the world.” 

Louis hums and shakes his head. “You’re very welcome. I hope you don’t feel like I took advantage. I hope you won’t regret asking me.” He phrases is as a statement, but the tail end of the sentence turns up making it sound like a question, and that just won’t do. 

“Not at all. If anything, I feel like _I_ used _you_ . So if there’s any complaints, they definitely won’t be coming from me. Hey, what day is it?” he asks suddenly, very aware that his match could be just hours away. He’s vaguely disappointed in himself that he didn’t try to figure this out earlier, but he pushes that thought away, and untangles himself from Louis to get up on his forearms. Now that he _is_ thinking about it, he wants to get going, and he finds himself standing up from the bed, getting up to find a pair of underwear. 

He must seem slightly panicked, based on Louis’ taken aback expression. 

“Woah, hey, it’s alright. You’re fine, you haven’t missed anything, don’t worry. It’s Saturday,” he says, then seems to think about something for a second before continuing. “Your first match was scheduled yesterday. You’re playing Sheeran on Tuesday,” he recounts as he follows Harry’s lead of getting up and dressed. He’s got a few bruises across his body, which Harry assumes only he can be responsible for. 

Tuesday is good, Harry thinks. That means he has today to recover, maybe do some light exercise in the evening once he’s let Nick know he’s back, and he can do proper training for a whole two days. Two days is enough to prepare for the match, seeing as he only lost – 

“You got me out of heat in three days?” he asks Louis incredulously, nearly shouting at him in surprise. 

“Jesus,” Louis mutters, clearly not expecting the sudden increase in volume. “Yeah, I guess I did.” 

Harry waits for Louis to pull his shorts on to not injure him, and then barrels him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. “Holy shit. Holy shit!” He jumps up and down, energy thrumming in his veins. It’s different from the energy he felt before going into heat – this is coming from him, form the news that he still has a shot, that his biology didn’t fuck up his chances too bad. “That’s insane! Louis, I’ve never had a heat last less than five days. Holy shit,” he keeps repeating, still not quite believing the turn of events. It’s better than he could have ever counted on. 

He lets Louis go, and pulls back to find him looking back curiously. “That’s... amazing, Harry. I don’t think they’re usually that quick, even if you spend them with your mate” he says in thought, slowly, as if processing each word as he says it. He looks perplexed, but shrugs it off nearly as soon as Harry can read him. Then, his demeanour visibly shifts as he adapts a teasing smile. “Told you, magic knot.” 

Harry visibly rolls his eyes and chucks a tennis sock him. He will need it later, but it’s worth it for the affronted squawk Louis lets out. 

“Maybe we’re just compatible,” Harry wiggles his eyebrows. Like the mature adult he is, Louis sticks his tongue out at him. Then again, what did Harry expect? 

Louis is now half dressed, looking good in his vest top and shorts he had worn to the gym when his plans had been interrupted, and Harry feels his inner Omega pay attention to the way the lack of sleeves accentuates his biceps. _Stupid_ , Harry thinks, _you just spent three days having non-stop sex with him. Shut up_ , but his Omega doesn’t do as it’s told. 

Once Louis has his trainers on, he closes the distance between them. He stands in front of Harry, hands in the pockets of his shorts. 

“I know this was a one off, but do you wanna get lunch tomorrow?” 

Harry starts thinking through his potential schedule, whether Nick would let him out of his sight where he could potentially avoid his carefully crafted diet plan when he’s already dropped off the radar for three days. He’s leaning towards yes, if he tells him he’s with another player, but he might have to keep Louis’ name out of it. Better not let his reputation get in the way. 

While Harry mulls it over, Louis seems to mistake his silence for hesitation. 

“I don’t have a lot of friends on tour, and we seem to get along well, even outside of sex, so I was thinking it would be good to keep in touch. But if you don’t want to-” 

“I would love to,” Harry interrupts, and secretly preens at the happy expression that takes over Louis’ face at his words. 

“Good. I’ll see you at one in the players’ canteen?” he confirms, and Harry nods his affirmation. 

Louis starts towards the door, looking around the room to make sure he has all his belongings, and gets to the door before the turns around. 

“Bye, Harry,” he says, and opens the door to let himself out. 

“Wait!” Harry shouts, and sprints across the room to find Louis in the hallway already, but the door still open behind him. He turns around, only centimetres apart from Harry. Harry smiles widely, making sure his dimple pops, and pecks him on the cheek. The slight blush that spreads over the tops of Louis’ cheeks is nothing short of glorious. 

“Bye, Louis.” 

Friends, my arse. He’ll show him friends. 

*** 

After Harry has remembered it’s early, and checked the time to verify it’s only just gone six a.m, he goes through the messages on his phone. There’s a lot of concern from his family, until Niall apparently let them know why Harry was uncontactable, and he replies to them, promising to call once he has a moment. He also texts Nick to let him know he’ll be back in training from evening onwards, and shoots Niall a similar update, ignoring everyone else for the time being. 

He has to assess the damage done to his body over the last few days. He knows his team will be sending him to physio for a check-up as they always do after heat, but Harry wants a moment to himself before resurfacing to the world. It seems his muscles aren’t too sore, which is good news, and his weight is only slightly under his usual, which he can get back up once he has a hearty meal. 

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles, and he goes to the table in search of a room service menu to see if he couldn’t order some breakfast in, when there is a knock at the door. His first thought is that Louis forgot something, but as he nears the door, the scent of the person on the other side of door is definitely beta. 

He opens the door to see a young waitress behind a trolley, which holds three covered plates on it. 

“Room service?” she asks. Harry furrows his eyebrows. 

“Um, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ordered anything,” he mutters, confused but also very interested in the smell coming from the trolley. 

“No, sir, Mr Tomlinson did. May I come in?” she asks flatly, looking less than impressed by Harry’s passivity. He moves aside to let her through, watching on as she converts the trolley into a table and arranges the breakfast dishes, perplexed but not wanting to cause the girl further complications. 

“So he... ordered breakfast?” he asks dumbly, because his brain is working slowly and this is not what he expected at all. 

She nods at him, still slightly annoyed but seemingly taking pity on Harry. “Mr Tomlinson has ordered breakfast and lunch here for the past two days. I only work morning shifts, so I can’t speak for evenings, but he has ensured all meals are in accordance with your diet,” she pours him a cup of tea from the pot. He can smell it – Earl Grey, his favourite. 

When Harry doesn’t respond, standing stock still, she quirks an eyebrow. 

“If I may say, he was very concerned with your wellbeing. He seemed very caring. As he just left, he asked the receptionist to bring you water every two hours and let him know if you feel unwell again.” 

Harry nods, his whole mind focused on how apparently Louis has been taking care of him in more than one way since his mind and body decided there were other pressing priorities. He’s still thinking about it as the girl leaves, mind decidedly stuck on the type of Alpha Louis is, and completely blanks when she walks past him, having to shout his thanks into the corridor a few seconds later. 

*** 

Come afternoon, he feels strong enough to leave the hotel room, so he arranges to meet Nick in one of the on-ground conference rooms to study up Sheeran’s style. He’s relatively confident he’s got this one even with the break of the last three days, as Sheeran has only barely recovered from his groin injury and will be slow on-court. When he tells Nick his thoughts, he’s told off for being presumptuous, and never to assume any match is his until he sees the scoreboard. It’s only the lecture Nick’s been giving him since he became his coach. 

When he is deemed sufficiently briefed, he’s told by his team to go do some light exercise, and he’s only too happy to indulge. Well, not before he sources himself some company. 

Niall is in the middle of a very vigorous task of aiming every ball at his coach when Harry approaches his training court. He doesn’t have a court booked for himself as he couldn’t predict when he would be back, but just watching Niall practise is enough to get his mind back into the spirit. He can’t wait for his match on Tuesday, to make his Grand Slam debut and experience all that comes with it, but for now he has to remind his body he’s a professional athlete. 

He leans his forearms onto the railing of Niall’s practise court, waiting to be noticed. For whatever reason, Niall seems deeply engrossed in damaging his coach, so Harry digs out his phone, intent on posting an image of the scene to his Instagram. He doesn’t get much further than his lock screen when he sees a message from “Tommo”. 

‘ _Gym doesn’t feel the same when there’s no one hurling abuse at me_ ’ 

Harry tries to control his smile, but thinks he ends up grinning at his phone screen all the same. 

‘ _Who is this and how do you have this number?_ ’ he types back, hoping Louis reads into the tone of the text and doesn’t think Harry doesn’t actually know whom he’s messaging. 

His phone pings with the reply nearly instantly. ‘ _I know for a fact I added my number to your phone_ ’ 

Harry can imagine how unimpressed Louis looks right now, sitting on some bicep-targeting machine in between sets, frowning down at his phone. The mental image has Harry snickering. 

‘ _Maybe I know more than one Tommo_ ’ he sends, and then quickly follows it up with ‘ _Usually being at the gym includes more exercise and less texting..._ ’ 

There is a pause between when the WhatsApp tick turns blue and Louis starts typing. A second later he stops, and as Harry patiently waits, a minute later a photo appears in the chat. 

And _oh_ , what a photo it is. He’s clearly sat on a leg curl machine, with his thighs tensed and stretched out in front of him against the ankle pads. He’s wearing indecently short white shorts that expose the better half of his thighs. And Harry – Harry's mouth is dry. He can’t take his eyes off the bulging muscle. He can’t tell if Louis intended it as a thirst trap or innocent proof that he really is exercising, but there is certainly nothing innocent about his thoughts. 

The photo is quickly followed up with ‘ _why_ _can't_ _I do both?_ ’

Harry physically shakes his head in order to clear his mind and types out a response. 

‘ _Show off_ ’ he writes, but his gaze is drawn back up to the top of his phone screen. _Shit_. 

He sees Louis typing again, but is distracted as a tennis ball hits the fence in front of him with a loud thump. He looks up, startled, to see why he’s become a target, and sees Niall waving at him excitedly. 

“Loser!” he shouts the moment he has Harry’s attention. “I’ve been shouting at you for the past thirty seconds.” 

Harry rolls his eyes at him but pockets his phone. “I came to see if you want to go for a run, but if you’re gonna be rude to me...” he trails off. 

Niall doesn’t get a word in before his coach, Lewis, interjects. “He absolutely does. Please, take him before he bruises any more of me.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows, but then remembers Niall’s aggressive shot not a minute ago, and nods. 

“It would be my pleasure,” he smiles brightly at Lewis, who shakes his head and pushes Niall towards Harry and out of the gate leading off-court. 

“I will have your stuff delivered to your room. Do not call me, Horan. Please run off whatever’s gotten into you,” he orders and shuts the gate door rather forcibly behind him. Niall looks amused more than anything else. 

“Do you think it’s a prerequisite to be a total arse to become a tennis coach? Nick and Lewis are about 90% sass each,” Niall muses. 

Harry nods. “One hundred percent. Maybe before they qualify, they’re given a crash course on how to annoy your trainee. Those two must have been top of their class.” 

Niall giggles and, as they head away from the courts, turns around to wave at Lewis. Harry turns around just in time to see Niall be flipped off. 

“I’m happy you’re back. Feeling alright?” he asks, hugging Harry close with an arm around his waist. 

“Yeah,” Harry affirms. “All good. Excited for Tuesday. Who are you playing for your first round, anyway?” 

They catchup as they head for a jog around the grounds, Niall relaying all the cool stories of the past few days that Harry missed and how it’s been getting busier each day. They only do a bit over five miles, but by the end of it Harry feels back to his pre-heat self, nerves thrumming with excitement for what’s to come. His body probably isn’t fully recovered yet, but just a simple run with his best mate has him more prepared than he’s felt until now. He can’t wait to make his Grand Slam debut, and at Wimbledon, no less. 

*** 

The next day he is back to his full routine, waking up at an ungodly hour to make the first practise slot on the courts. Nick doesn’t take it easy on him, saying there is “residue heat energy stuck in his body”, whatever that means, and that he should use this to be even more reactive when playing. He then proceeds to work his backhand for so long Harry thinks his arms and shoulders may give out, but at least Nick looks satisfied, the smug fucker. Niall was absolutely right. 

Once he’s sure he will damage himself if they continue with the same focus, Nick decides that it is absolutely necessary to keep Harry running to opposite ends of the court from wherever he currently is. By the time lunchtime rolls arounds, Harry is lying a panting mess on the grass, unwilling to move from his spot ever again. Nick pokes him in the stomach with the end of the racket. 

“Go, recharge, and come back. We’ve got so much on our plate to get you ready for Tuesday.” 

“We?” Harry croaks. He doesn’t remember subjecting himself to torture being one of the terms of the contract he signed with Nick. 

“We,” Nick confirms, and then proceeds to poke him some more until Harry gets up with a groan. 

He somehow pulls together just enough energy to drag himself to the canteen, thankfully finding Louis pretty easily. He looks good, like he hasn’t just been subjected to the whims of an insane person, and he lights up when he sees Harry slump into the chair opposite him. 

“I am dying, Louis,” he moans dramatically, running his hands over his face, still catching his breath. “Help me.” 

“Tough morning?” Louis asks, smiling as he leans forward to place his arms on the table and inspect Harry. God knows what he must see. 

“You have no idea,” Harry groans and runs a hand through his hair. “Is there anything I can do to persuade you to get my lunch for me? My legs might actually give in if I get up again.” He gives Louis his best puppy dog eyes, even jutting out his bottom lip slightly, but turns out he needn’t have done that; Louis practically jumps up from his seat at the chance to take care of Harry. 

“You stay, babe,” he tells him. “I’ve got you. Anything specific you want?” 

Harry looks up at him, trying to wordlessly convey his gratitude. He wants to break his diet in a covert rebellion against Nick’s restrictions, but in the end thinks better of it and ends up saying, “Surprise me.” 

When Louis returns, it’s with two trays of chicken avocado salads and bottles of Lucozade. 

“Pink lemonade or wild cherry?” he asks at the same time as Harry breathes out, “you’re a life saviour.” 

He takes the light pink bottle for himself and drains a third of it in one go before even looking at the food in front of him. Jesus, if all Grand Slams feed their players like this, he’ll have to start qualifying for them more often. 

“Is your coach as ruthless as everyone else’s seems to be?” Harry asks as he starts at his food. It’s as delicious as it looks. 

Louis hums for a second before responding, and Harry has a feeling it has nothing to do with the food he’s chewing. 

“Not quite,” he says carefully, like he’s in on a joke Harry isn’t part of. Harry frowns at him. 

“What do you mean, not quite?” Harry clarifies, curious to see where this goes. 

Louis takes a sip of his own drink before replying. 

“I don’t have a coach, actually,” he then says, and Harry just about chokes on a piece of tomato. He coughs for a second and then looks at Louis, confused. 

“You don’t have a coach?” he asks once he recovers enough to make his mouth function. 

“I don’t,” Louis nods in confirmation, then seems to think it over and elaborates. “I kept clashing with anyone who would give me orders and didn’t get on so well with any of my previous ones. So, once I got good enough that I didn’t need one to stay in the game, we parted ways,” he explains, biting his bottom lip slightly. “I know the media likes to say we had a massive falling out with James, but it’s not like that. I still call hi from time to time for advice, but it works out for the both of us that we don’t formally work together.” 

Harry hums in acknowledgement. He hasn’t really ever heard of anyone not having a coach before – not anyone past a certain level, anyway. It sort of makes sense, really, when he looks at Louis and thinks to what he knows of him. He can’t imagine Louis performing well under authority. He tells him as much. 

“I can’t imagine you performing well under authority,” he tells him. Louis snickers around his forkful of salad and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“You’re right, I don’t,” he says, voice low. “Rather prefer to give orders out meself.” 

Harry feels his cheeks heat up, his blood getting a tiny bit more liquid in his veins. He holds Louis’ gaze for a second, an unspoken message communicated between them, and has a vivid flashback to Louis’ body above his, Louis whispering filthy things in his hear, Louis on him and in him and everywhere around him. Harry calling him Alpha. 

He has to take a sip from his bottle to get his body to function again, and when he looks back at Louis, his pupils are blown just a tiny bit wider than the last time Harry saw them. 

Thankfully, Louis changes the topic before the conversation can get any less canteen lunch appropriate. 

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” he begins, a hint of a nervous note to his voice. Harry finds it endearing, likes that despite being Alpha, Louis still has this other, softer side to him. 

Harry finds Louis’ ankle below the table with his foot and gives it a gentle kick, wanting him to go on. 

“I’ve got my match tomorrow against Greg James. I know you’ll probably be busy with training, but do you want to come watch it?” he gets out quickly, looking at Harry hopefully. “It’s the last one on Court Two, so it shouldn’t disrupt your morning schedule too much.” 

Harry beams at him before the second sentence is even fully out yet. 

“Of course, Lou, I’d love to. I’ll be there,” he promises him, heart fluttering. Realistically, he knows this is just an invitation to watch a match and nothing more, but something inside him makes him giddy, pleased that Louis asked him, that he wants him there. 

Louis’ answering smile reflects everything Harry is feeling inside him. 

“Great. I’ll arrange a seat for you in my box.” 

And so it’s settled. 

*** 

Surprisingly, Harry has little trouble convincing Nick to give him a few hours off the next day. He says it’s to study up the atmosphere of this year’s Wimbledon, as if he hasn’t been to about a thousand matches like this before. Nick lets him off with a warning to keep his snacking under wraps and be in bed at a reasonable hour, so all things considered, the talk is smooth sailing. 

With the real first day commencing, though, the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club grounds are busier than Harry could have ever imagined. It seems that wherever he looks, there is a massive crowd looking for the right court, or trying to source food, or a celebrity making their way around with guards trailing them. It’s completely different from anything Harry has experienced in his career so far, even if he’s only twenty, and it gets his whole body thrumming in the most pleasant way. It seems like all of London and beyond has congregated in this very limited space, and is trying to make the most of it. Harry doesn’t blame them at all – he is just as enamoured, spellbound by the magic surrounding him. 

Despite not being very well-known (yet, he hopes) to the general public, there is a sizeable audience watching him perfect his moonballs. He’s not used to this kind of attention, really, and sends one or two balls outside of the court despite his best attempts to focus. He hopes there won’t be a repeat of this tomorrow. 

He doesn’t see or hear from Louis all day, partly because he has a tightly packed schedule to get through the morning and no time to check his phone, and partly because he knows Louis wouldn’t have time to message him, anyway. Match days can be hectic. 

Once the second match on Court Two, a women’s single containing the number three seed, looks like it starts wrapping up on the telly, Harry starts getting dressed. He has spare clothes in his locker at the grounds, too, but he wanted to shower in his hotel bathroom and wear something better than a simple t shirt. He does his hair, too, makes sure it looks more princely and less Tarzan-esque, which Gemma thinks is its natural state, but what does she know, anyway. 

He begins the short walk to the grounds and feels more like an anonymous member of the audience than a participating player. He’s not dressed in his sports clothes, for starters, but mostly the feeling is brought on by the people milling around, engulfing him and making him one of them. The difference is that he doesn’t actually have a ticket, and so he has to use the players’ entrance some 500 metres away. As he’s allowed in and heads towards the correct court, he sees some people coming out, indicating the match has finished. It won’t be long now until Louis gets on. 

He’s sat in a box before, of course, for Niall and his other friends from the tennis scene, but none of it compares to this. As he is let in, he looks around and sees the stalls are nearly full, even with the match being the last one of the day. He knows Louis draws a crowd, not only because he is a great player, but because even (and particularly) on bad days, his style of play is entertaining like nothing else. 

His box seems to be at the centre of it, with the row directly behind him filled down to the last seat. As he enters, he sees there are two people in it already, two girls younger than him who seem occupied by their phones. When it becomes very clear that he is headed in there, too, the blonde girl nudges the brunette and nods in Harry’s direction. 

Harry doesn’t remember Louis mentioning anyone else being in the box, not that Harry thought he would be alone. He just wasn’t expecting two very pretty Omega girls. 

“Fizzy, for the love of God, will you get off your phone for one minute?” the blonde sighs exasperatedly, then lifts her sunglasses on her head and turns to Harry. A very familiar smile overtakes her face. 

“You must be Harry!” She all but shouts, and when Harry nods in what he hopes is friendly and not terrified manner, she pulls him into a hug. “Louis has talked my ear off about you,” she giggles. “I’m Lottie, Louis’ sister, and this is Fizzy,” she introduces them. Harry exchanges a hug with Fizzy, too, and immediately feels at ease once they sit him down and place a plastic cone of strawberries and clotted cream on his lap in true Wimbledon fashion. 

“Louis said not to feed you unhealthy foods, but I don’t think this counts,” Lottie says. Harry likes her instantly. 

“You’re absolutely right,” he smiles at her. “This is my one of five a day.” Lottie grins at him triumphantly. He’s grateful Louis didn’t mention that members of his family will be present here, or he would have certainly overstressed thinking about making a good impression, but this way he just lets himself be himself. Judging by the look Fizzy and Lottie exchange, he thinks it’s turned out well. 

Not a minute after Harry, the door to the box open again and a heavily tattooed Alpha walks in, taking the seat beside Harry. Harry recognises the face instantly – Liam Payne is only one of the most chart-topping popstars in all of UK. He doesn’t know if this is a friend situation, or one of those “a celebrity asked me and I didn’t say no” situations, but Harry quickly comes to the conclusion it’s the former when Liam reaches across Harry to fist bump both sisters. 

He then stretches a hand out to Harry. 

“Liam Payne, Louis’ friend,” he introduces rather formally, and shakes Harry’s hand when he accepts it. 

“Um, Harry Styles, also a friend?” he says, but it comes out sounding more like a question than a statement. 

Lottie snorts from beside him, while Fizzy rolls her eyes. 

“Give it a rest, Liam, you’re not trying to sign a deal with a suit. Harry’s cool,” she says. Harry doesn’t know exactly _when_ Fizzy came to the conclusion he’s cool, but he’ll take it. Louis’ sisters are so much like Louis himself. 

Liam ignores the jab. “Where’s my strawberries?” he asks no one in particular, and points at the cone sat between Harry’s thighs. 

Harry goes to offer him his portion, but Lottie is quick to block the movement. She’s rather commanding for an Omega, particularly with Liam twice her size. 

“Louis said that you can get your own strawberries,” she says, but her tone is light, teasing. 

Liam frowns at her. “Why didn’t he get me any?” 

Lottie motions at him incomprehensibly, but Harry gets the gist of it when Liam leans slightly towards him and take a whiff. His eyes widen suddenly, and he moves away from Harry’s space like he’s been stung. 

Harry tries to sniff himself, but all he smells is his peach shampoo and the deodorant he applied not half an hour ago. Rude. 

“Keep your strawberries, Harry,” Liam coughs. 

When Harry looks at Lottie for an explanation, she just smiles at him innocently. _Definitely_ Louis’ sister. 

They are interrupted when the players start walking onto the court. They’re both wearing customary white, but even from the other side of the court it’s not hard to tell them apart – Greg James seems to tower over Louis. Louis doesn’t look at them as he sets his bag down and does a few jumps, but he doesn’t seem nervous in the slightest. He just seems in the zone. 

Greg James is barely in the top one hundred ATP players, so there isn’t much doubt about who is expected to take this match. Louis delivers, too – as the match gets going, he seems completely focused, nailing every serve and only letting a few unforced errors slip. As game after game passes, he seems to further relax into it, and for once he’s not even arguing with the umpire. His box is in good spirits, too, chatting pleasantly as their favourite takes the first set 6-3. 

While they have a small break, Louis gets out a water bottle and starts throwing it into the air. He does this for a minute before clearly coming up with an idea, and then proceeding to throw it up with a spin, trying to land it upright on the court. The bottle falls on its side, and Louis lets out an audible ‘shiiiit’. 

Lottie murmurs “welcome to the Louis show,” while the rest of the crowd laughs, eating up Louis’ antics. He covers his face dramatically. 

He repeats the throw-spin-and-land a few times until the bottle lands upright, and Louis smiles victoriously, pointing to a few crowd members who get up from their seats to applaud him. Harry observes this with a quiet smile on his lips, taking in Louis’ personality and the reaction of the audience to him. 

When the joy of nailing the water bottle flip fades, Louis settles into his chair and looks up at the umpire. 

Even from a distance, Harry can see the menacing look on his face, and his words that carry through the court confirm that. 

“Does it feel good to be in a chair up there?” he asks the poor umpire, waiting for the unsure nod from the man before continuing. “Does it feel strong?” 

The umpire laughs at him and shakes his head, and a second later announces the time. 

“Get on court, Tomlinson,” he says, and Louis does a soldier’s salute before picking up his racket and dutifully getting in place for his serve. 

The rest of the match goes off pretty well, all things considered. Louis’ game is on point, punctuated with some customary underhand serves (at which Fizzy sighs dramatically and Liam claps wildly) and shots in between the legs. It’s a good day for Louis, and he’s not afraid to show it to the people surrounding him, even hugging a ballboy in celebration after an ace. 

The highlight of the whole match comes about fifteen minutes before the end of the third and final set. Louis is two sets ups, having just won the last game to set the score at 4-1, and is uncontrollably smiling through his water break. He’s whistled and shouted at his box a couple of times throughout the game, nothing awfully explicit thank goodness, but nothing has come close to this. He looks towards his box, where Harry is telling Liam about his love for his latest album, when Louis shouts ‘Harry!’ to grab his attention. 

Harry looks over, seeing Louis with yet another water bottle, drinking and sending a wink in Harry’s direction. Harry is about to wave back happily, when Louis lowers the bottle high between his thighs and shakes it slightly, seemingly uncaring the whole stadium and his own sisters are present to witness this. He squeezes the bottle a bit, some of the water coming out of the open neck, and Harry bursts into a laugh, burying his face in his hands. When he looks back up, he sends Louis a kiss, and feels a punch in his arm from Lottie. He’ll take it for the blinding smile that takes over Louis’ face at that. 

Once the match has ended, Harry is quick to explain to the others that his own match is next morning and he better get going. The others wave him off with wishes of good luck, and so he makes his way to the hotel and his bed, sliding under the covers and calming his mind and body down. He sends Louis a quick text congratulating him, adding a kiss for good measure, and thinks to his match. He’s happy for Louis, genuinely so, but now, it’s time for him to concentrate on his own challenges. 

*** 

Harry wakes up with nerves tangled in the pit of his stomach. He has to run to the bathroom to empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet and not his bed, and then sits on the cool floor for a second, taking heavy breaths. He hasn’t had this bad a nervous reaction since his first final several months ago, and he hates that they’re back now. He thought he had been prepared for this, but turns out his body has other plans. 

After a few minutes of doing nothing but counting the ins and outs of his breathing, the finally gets up and begins his morning routine. He hasn’t got any formal training today, only a final run through before his warm up, but he still bypasses the breakfast. He can’t even begin to imagine being faced with other players, much less Sheeran. 

Nick is already in the briefing room when Harry walks in, and just from one look he seems to know how he’s feeling. Nick can be ruthless, but after all Harry is lucky to have a coach who is not only a friend, but has also known him for long enough to read him fairly easily. 

Wordlessly, Nick sits him down on one of the chairs and shuts the door behind him. He sits on the table in front of Harry, and looks down at him with determination in his eyes. 

“H, you’ve been doing this your whole life. You’re ready. One tough morning isn’t gonna undo all of the training and effort you put in to get here,” he tells him sternly, bordering on using his Alpha voice. Harry would severely dislike that if it wasn’t exactly what he needs right now. His mind may want to panic, but his body still responds to the strong reassurings of an Alpha, and at least he seems to breathe easier than before. “Sheeran stands no chance against you, alright? Lots of first timers don’t even make it past the first round, and you’ve pretty much got this. Just need to keep your head in check.” 

Harry nods, worrying his lip. 

“I’m more angry than anything. There should be no reason this is different than any other match,” he confesses, voice hoarse. His mind is picturing all the faces watching him, BBC broadcasting his every double fault, every serve he doesn’t return, so realistically he knows this is a different situation from the matches he’s played, but at the same time he feels like it’s not – it’s the same sport he’s loved for years. 

“You’re allowed to be stressed. This would be a big step for anyone,” Nick assures him. He ruffles Harry’s hair in an uncharacteristically physical show of affection. Then, he laughs at something. 

“You know what convinced me to become your coach in the first place?” Harry shakes his head, swallowing down all the mental images swimming around in his mind. “When I came to see you play for the first time, you had just won a match in the under eighteens league in straight sets against a much more experienced player. I didn’t expect to see you again until the next day, but instead that same night, when I was out for a walk, you and Niall had broken into one of the courts and you were practising your net shots because you had lost three points on them in the final ten minutes of the match. That’s when I thought that even if you were still rough around the edges, you had the determination to get to the top. I’ve never had a doubt, Harry.” 

Harry nods. He remembers that night, but he didn’t know Nick had seen him and Niall unlawfully sneak into the club at ten pm. He had to beg, and when that didn’t work, bribe Niall into serving him the balls. It was freezing cold, middle of February, and Niall had complained about how his fingers were numb the whole time. He still reminds him of that when he wants to guilt Harry into something. 

“So what you’re saying is, I’m a diamond and no longer rough around the edges?” Harry chooses to focus on the humour, afraid that if the thinks of anything else, he will throw up again. 

“Only because I worked tirelessly to uncover the shine,” Nick teases back. Harry feels the tight knot in his stomach undo itself some more. 

“Now sit and listen to your final instructions, and then go and see if you can get some food down you. I refuse to let something like nutrition be the undoing of this.” 

*** 

Harry does, indeed, manage to eat half an omelette and some toast before it’s his time to warm-up. His mum and Gemma come see him while he’s doing some stretches, and while Gemma makes fun of the bun he has wrangled his hair into, his mum further soothes his nerves. 

“Whatever happens, I’m so proud of you, pup,” she tells him, and he believes her. She would probably kick his arse if he didn’t. 

When it’s finally time for his match, surprisingly, he feels nothing but concentration. His mum’s words ring in his mind, and that helps to take the pressure off, and so by the time he has won the first set, he hasn’t second questioned a single decision he’s made. Clearly, it’s paid off. His box is happy, too, Niall and Gemma in a conversation and Anne and Robin hunched over her phone screen, Nick and Jeff looking stern as ever. 

Maybe the false sense of security is the reason for it, but he loses the second set. Sheeran makes some great returns to Harry’s serve, and despite his best efforts, he’s not able to recover after his serve gets broken. The audience, even as limited at Court Six can hold, seems to be on his side, which is a comfort, cheering him on at all the right moments, but it does nothing for him as he struggles to the end of the set. It also doesn’t help when the set after that ends 6-2 and not in his favour. 

He sits on the break bench, eyes stubbornly directed at the grass in front of him, counting each blade while his head thrums with match strategy and Sheeran’s weak points. He is lower in the rankings than Harry, yes, but he has more experience. He mentally goes through Nick’s slides while he digs a banana from his bag, and forces himself to eat it despite his body telling him the opposite. 

As he sits there, contemplating what he’s doing wrong, he feels a warmth spread through his chest muscles, down his tummy and seeping into his muscles. It’s pleasant in the most awakening way, setting his blood on fire and bringing his mind to a focused state, calm and determined. He can’t ever remember feeling this way before, like there’s gold in his veins, like he could go out and conquer the world, but it’s there now, deep inside him and pushing him, spurring him on to go to the baseline and serve the second the umpire announces time. 

He throws the ball, leans back and waits for it to come down before hitting it perfectly, putting the perfect amount of spin onto it. He feels it more than sees it fly onto the other side of the net, and only when the crowd erupts in applause does he realise he’s hit the first ace of the day. He hears Gemma whooping from his box, and turns to see his supporting team all applauding on their feet. 

He starts his comeback like that, acing his way through the first game and putting himself behind every shot, nailing each return and high ball. He even seems to do well at the net, and so he takes the next set to equal at 2-2. 

There’s only one set between him and the second round of Wimbledon. He’s exhausted and ecstatic at the same time, the sun high in the sky but not as warming as the feeling inside him. He doesn’t drop a game as he takes the fourth set and the win and thanks the audience who are clapping for him. He shakes Sheeran’s hand, waits for him to shake hands with the umpire before doing the same, and then makes a beeline for his box. His family are already jumping in excitement, even Nick looking happy, and he joins them in their celebration. 

He’s surprised that the person he wants to share his victory with the most, though, isn’t there, and in between congratulatory hugs, something makes him turn around and look in the audience. There, most people are already packing up or getting snacks before the next match begins, but there is one person who Harry locks eyes with. He feels the same warmth inside him again, and wordlessly he just _knows_ Louis is feeling the happiness, too. 

He’s reminded to move off court by one of the ball boys, and does so swiftly, promising to see his family later. He follows Nick and Jeff to one of the briefing rooms for another post-match run through. Thankfully, they don’t take long, outlining Harry’s main areas of struggle, and Nick leaves him with a pat to his shoulder. As Harry turns around, ready to leave the over air-conditioned room, he sees a figure leaning against the doorframe. 

Louis has his hands in his pockets and he’s looking at Harry with a small smirk, like he’s not even trying to hide the slow once-over he gives him. Harry doesn’t overthink it, and instead gets up from his chair quickly, running to Louis and jumping up into his arms. Either Louis expected it, or has incredible reaction, but he spreads his arms in time to catch Harry and squeeze him into himself. 

Harry burrows close to Louis, nuzzling into his neck. He feels the golden liquid spread from his heart down his torso again, and that’s when he knows. He leans back to lock eyes with Louis. 

“You,” he says, staring into the endless blue. Louis nods, not breaking eye contact. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you. I was in a funk and couldn’t get my head on straight.” 

Louis shakes his head vigorously. “You would have got there on your own, too. I just helped you remember how good you are.” 

Harry smiles, and lifts his palms to frame Louis’ face. It feels intimate in a way only a couple of days of knowing each other shouldn’t allow for, but it also feels right. 

“How did you know?” he asks him, feeling the soft jawline of his face. He’s gorgeous, always is, but like this, with Harry’s fingers on his face, he’s even more so. 

Louis shrugs. “Just felt uneasy, a bit anxious, so I ended my press conference early and came to see how you were doing. Saw you there trying to murder the grass with your gaze, and couldn’t help myself.” 

Harry smiles up at him, tracing the side of his face with one finger. The moment he thinks it, Louis is already leaning in, locking their lips in a gentle press, warm and pliant. It’s the first kiss they’ve shared outside of Harry’s heat, and it feels both familiar and new at the same time. Harry melts into it, feeling like he could spend a lifetime in Louis’ arms, kissing him with all the slow heat he can put into it. 

Louis separates them what feels like too soon but is probably a whole minute later, and hikes Harry up but doesn’t let him go. 

“I’m proud of you, baby,” Louis whispers, softly squeezing Harry’s waist where one of his hands is placed. 

Instinctively, Harry flushes and tucks his face into Louis’ neck, inhaling his scent. It’s heavy on the honey today, and it seeps into every cell of Harry’s body, settles him against the stress of the day. The scent gets even stronger on Louis’ next exhale, and Harry lets himself revel in it, take the comfort and peaceful stillness he’s craved all day. 

Louis lets him take his time, and once Harry feels it deep inside him, has soaked up some of the warm serenity, gently lowers him down. 

“Sorry you had to abandon that press conference,” Harry says. Secretly, he’s somewhat pleased Louis had come to him, but also feels genuinely guilty for taking him away from his duties. 

Louis immediately waves him off. 

“Don’t give it a second thought. Maybe it’s even better that I didn’t have time to say anything that would only end up in the headlines again,” he laughs, eyes narrowing and giving him lines along the tops of his cheekbones. 

Harry bites his lip to keep himself from grinning, trying to maintain a serious expression. 

“Speaking of that. What’s with the wanking motion yesterday?” 

Louis’ eyes widen comically at the mention. 

“Um, sorry, did that make you uncomfortable? Spur of the moment decision,” he starts, but quickly catches on when Harry can’t help but let the slightest hint of a smile slide onto his face. “Waving just seemed, lame, you know?” 

For a second, Louis and Harry both grin at each other dopily, until Louis breaks and bursts out laughing. 

“A wave would have done _just fine_ ,” Harry giggles. 

“And risk Liam thinking I am in any way being nice to him? I don’t think so,” Louis retorts. 

*** 

After his win, he’s allowed the whole afternoon off before a mandatory run to keep him in form. He spends the time in the garden of the hotel, relaxing with Gemma and letting her paint his toenails. She does a whole rainbow colour scale, from a dark purple to a bright red, which will only be covered by his tennis socks and potentially ruined on his impending run, but it makes her happy and looks pretty, so he doesn’t protest. 

After his nails have dried, they meet Anne and Robin for an early dinner in a nearby restaurant. His appetite awakened (or scared into manifesting by Anne’s caring but stern demeanour), he makes up for the lack of food in his stomach for the whole first half of the day as he tells his family about the likely list of opponents for the second round. They listen dutifully, and Anne makes sure to check up on Niall who played his game on another court two hours after Harry finished his. They don’t bring up Harry’s rollercoaster of a mood during the game, which he’s grateful for. 

*** 

Next morning finds Harry in the club’s swimming pool, doing long stretches back and forth and controlling his breath. It’s not part of his usual exercise routine, but Nick had said something about “working his body in balance”, so here he is, underwater and diligently disregarding Nick’s every attempt at reminding him to use his core. He uses his core when he wants to, thank you, and besides, using his core seems sort of ridiculous when Mendes is in the lane next to him with his perfectly shaped abs. He’s an Omega, like Harry, he can smell it in the water every time they pass each other, but where Harry’s hips will always retain a bit of pudge, Shawn’s body seems sculpted by the Greek gods themselves. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a considerable amount of strength in his stomach anyway, but he feels sluggish and nervous about today. He has his first Wimbledon press conference lined up in a couple of hours, and where he has done them on a smaller scale before, this will be broadcast on _BBC_. Harry’s nan watches BBC. Harry’s schoolmates watch BBC. The whole nation watches BBC, so he thinks he’s allowed to be a bit unsettled. Then again, he’s felt like a deer caught in the headlights since he first qualified, so it’s nothing new. He and the stress in his belly are old acquaintances by now. 

On his next rotation Nick taps the pool’s edge next to his head twice as a signal to come out of the water after the next stretch, and he kicks off for the final time aiming to make it back in record time. His arms hurt and he feels the chlorine has at least somewhat washed off his neutraliser, which doesn’t make for a great swim when most of the players around him are Alphas. 

He glides the last meter to touch the wall and quickly surfaces, pulling himself up to sit on the ledge. It’s less than comfortable, but he makes do as Nick launches into a speech on how his chest and shoulders can’t do all the work. He then tosses him a water bottle and leaves him with a sigh, telling him to rest until he gets back from wherever he’s going. 

Harry spends his break looking at the literal pool of his competition in front of him, some swimming leisurely while others seem to treat their lane as an opportunity to show off. He spots a few big names on the further lanes who must have arrived after he did, and spends a good minute working up the nerve to go and talk to Roger Federer, but is interrupted at the last second by a voice next to him. 

“It’s Harry, right? Harry Styles?” 

He turns around to find Shawn Mendes looking at him curiously, sat nearly in the same position on top of his own lane. He nods. 

“And you’re Shawn Mendes? It’s good to meet you,” he starts, slightly confused about this interaction. It’s not uncommon for players to make friends on tour, but it’s not exactly usual for a player in the top twenty to approach a newcomer. After all, Harry still feels like an imposter half the time. 

“Saw your match yesterday, great recovery there. Was sick to watch,” Shawn tells him enthusiastically. No doubt his match was not the reason Shawn came to him, but it still sets off tiny little butterflies in his body. Professional player or not, hearing compliments from his opponents still renders him speechless more often than not. 

“Thanks, mate, yeah. Just happy to get to through to this stage, you know,” Harry shrugs, oddly embarrassed once he remembers who he’s talking to. “Well, not that you would. You’ve been doing this for a while.” 

Shawn laughs kindly at Harry’s blubbering and reaches across to squeeze his bicep. 

“Trust me, I still get it. I have to pinch myself on a regular basis to remind me this is happening.” 

Harry hums non-committedly, not very convinced but not wanting to come off as rude, either. When he doesn’t respond verbally, Shawn continues. 

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something. I saw Niall Horan was in your player’s box yesterday?” He waits for Harry to confirm, then goes on. “And I’ve seen you guys around a lot together, you’re like, cuddling and stuff a lot. Is there something going on between you two?” 

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up and he can’t help the comical gasp that comes out of his mouth. He splutters for a second before managing to get his brain to work enough to give Shawn an answer. 

“Between Niall and me? No, definitely not,” he laughs, nearly tipping into the water from the force of the shakes in his body. He loves Niall like a brother, but the thought has never even crossed his mind – well, until now, anyway. “Niall’s my best friend, known him since we were pre-teens.” 

Shawn gives him an odd look. “So you’re definitely not dating?” 

Harry shakes his head, droplets flying off his hair with the force of it. “Not even close.” 

Shawn turns his body even more towards Harry, now fully facing him and lowering his voice. He looks shy, almost bashful. 

“Harry, do you think there’s a chance you would...” he starts off, but Harry interrupts him quickly, not giving Shawn the opportunity to finish his sentence. 

“I’m really flattered, Shawn, but I’m sort of working things out with someone. So I don’t think I would consider anyone else,” he surprises himself when he adds the last part, mouth forming words he hasn’t given it permission to say out loud. He finds them to be true, though – not a very long time at all has passed, but the idea of dating someone other than Louis seems ridiculous. 

Shawn stares at him, eyes wide. 

“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. 

“You seem really nice, but it wouldn’t be fair to him or you. I’m sorry, I just feel like it’s best to let you know right away so there’s no confusion. I’m in like, a thing, with someone.” 

Shawn’s eyebrows crease. 

“I know.” 

Now it’s Harry turn to be puzzled. 

“You do? I’m not sure I follow.” 

Shawn looks at Harry like he finds the whole situation funny, which Harry doesn’t much appreciate. He suspects he may be pouting unintentionally. 

“Your very public and indecent exchange with Louis Tomlinson is all over the news. Everyone knows,” Shawn says slowly and pointedly, like spelling it out for a child. It does little to clear things up for Harry, however, only causing him to flush thinking about his childhood idols opening the tennis section of the news and reading about Louis’ on-court gesture. 

“Then why –” 

Shawn cuts him off. “Harry, I’m asking you because I’m interested in Niall.” 

Harry stares at him. He blinks. Then, he buries his face in his hands. 

“Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing,” he whines, hearing Shawn burst into laughter next to him. “I cannot believe I just assumed that because of one shoulder squeeze.” 

Shawn’s laughter gets even louder, and there’s nothing shy left about him now. Harry peeks at him between his fingers, then squeezes his eyes shut again for a moment. Not quite the time to come back out of hiding yet. 

“Not that you don’t have great shoulders, you should definitely be proud, but that was in a more buddy Omega way, not in a _I fancy_ _you_ way,” Shawn explains, still giggling at Harry’s misery. Harry remerges from behind his hands, but mostly only because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll be at risk of falling back into the water. 

“Can we pretend the last minute didn’t just happen?” Harry whines, practically feeling how red his face must still be. When Shawn nods in compliance, still smiling widely, Harry takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself. He’s only somewhat successful. “Go on, ask me again, and I will try not to make dumb assumptions again.” 

Shawn snorts in amusement, but thankfully lets it go. 

“I was _going to_ ask if you could talk to Niall, see if he knows who I am? Get a bit of a feel for what he thinks of me,” he says, voice lowered again. It’s really cute, actually, how small he manages to once again appear when talking about his apparent crush. _Niall would eat him alive,_ Harry thinks, which might actually make them the perfect match. 

“I would love to play cupid for my best friend,” Harry wiggles his eyebrows in response and splashes his feet in the pool water, giddy like a child. “I have to warn you, though, he is a moron at the best of times.” 

The tops of Shawn’s cheeks get slightly pinker as he responds. 

“Yeah, I know. That’s what sort of attracts me to him,” he says conspiratorially, as if Harry is going to run off and tell the whole world. 

“Well, it’s your funeral, but I’ll see what I can do,” Harry promises dutifully, just as there’s a splash in the water in front of him. He refuses to look at it, but judging by the face Shawn pulls as he looks down at the water, it’s not something he’ll be happy about. 

Indeed, a second later there’s the tell-tale sound of footsteps behind him. 

“Guess you’re gonna have to use your core now,” comes Nick’s voice, all too smug. 

Harry looks down at the lane in front of him, sees a kickboard, and heaves a pointed sigh. 

*** 

His second-round opponent is announced right before he’s about to take a seat in front of the press, which puts him in a less than great mood. He gets the text a few minutes before the information becomes public, which leaves him with a moment to gather himself and think of responses to the surely prodding questions he’s about to receive. 

He knows he practically stands no chance of winning a match against Milos Raonic, and he’s not too miffed about that – really, he’s still reeling from the chance to be at Wimbledon at all. But he could do without it looming over his very first Grand Slam conference. On the other hand, Nick promised to get him a _publicist_ when he qualifies for the next one, so things could be worse. 

The press is kind to him, whether it’s because in the grand scheme of things he’s a newcomer or because his attempts to charm them genuinely pay off, but he survives them relatively unscathed. They know as well as he does how his next match will most likely end, and they don’t push too much, rather focusing on the _new golden boy of British tennis_ narrative. So Harry smiles widely, makes a few puns that he hopes come across more endearing than awful, and diligently answers every question head-on. He only stumbles slightly when a reporter from Channel 4 asks him about the incident at Louis’ game, but recovers quickly from the shock and makes a vague comment about them being friends. The reporter doesn’t seem too convinced. 

Speaking of Louis, he sends him a simple “good luck today xx” text once he’s out and the cameras are no longer on him. His second-round match coincides with Harry’s physical tests with the on-site doctor, which means he has to miss it. Despite only knowing him for a week, something in Harry’s gut feels wrong at the prospect of not sitting in the box cheering him on and being there to support him. Realistically, he knows Louis has his sisters and presumably Liam, the normal up until his last match, but it still doesn’t make him feel any less annoyed at the prospect of sitting through blood tests and urine samples while being told of the consequences of taking any performance enhancing drugs. 

The doctor, Mrs White, is a kind looking beta in her forties, and for all that Harry wants to like her, he can’t make himself relax in her presence. As far as he’s concerned, she’s the obstacle to him sitting in the audience of Court Two, so he’s grumpy and anxious from the get-go. To her credit, she tries to make him comfortable, even if she doesn’t much succeed. 

“I can imagine this isn’t pleasant for you, Mr Styles, but if you work with me, we’ll be done in under an hour,” she smiles at him, swabbing his finger with rubbing alcohol and pricking it with a needle. Harry frowns at her. 

She continues around him, taking his temperature and writing down some notes, humming in what he’s sure would usually be a pleasant manner. Harry chooses to focus on the posters in her office, annoyed at himself that he’s being so unwelcoming; his mum raised him better, yet he just can’t seem to snap out of his moodiness. He can’t be far off from Gemma levels when she was a teenager. 

Twenty minutes in and he still can’t make himself relax, so his blood pressure measures high and he unwittingly glares at the doctor when she has to redo it on his other arm. He feels bad about it, but not enough to apologise, so he grumpily stretches out his other arm and lets the beta pull the band on. He tries not to breathe too often or too shallowly when the machine begins tightening around his skin, but a minute later he finds himself on the receiving end of a sympathetic glance. 

“Mr Styles, please, I’m sure it’s hard being away from your Alpha, but this worrying isn’t doing you or indeed your results any good. Do try and relax,” she gently chastises and taps the monitor with the digital numbers with her finger. 

Harry speaks for the first time since walking into the room. 

“My Alpha?” he asks, voice hoarse and reflecting all the surprise he’s feeling inside at her words. 

She nods. 

“I’ve been a doctor for twenty years, dear. What kind of a medical professional would I be if I couldn’t spot an Omega in distress because of their partner?” 

Harry doesn’t reply, mind stuck on a loop of _their partner their partner their partner_. He doesn’t want to tell her that she’s wrong, partially (or mostly, really) because he likes how the words sound, even if they aren’t quite true. It won’t harm anyone. 

“Now, tell me about your heats. Any irregularities, concerns?” she asks, sitting down in front of him with a determined air. Harry complies, eyes on the clock and counting down seconds. 

He is only released an hour and a half later, consequence of his own body not complying and the doctor having to redo multiple tests. When he checks the scores on his phone, he sees that Louis’ game has already ended, Louis winning in straight sets and only dropping five games overall. He breathes out a sigh of relief, has half a thought to go back to the doctor and show her his actual resting heart rate, then sends Louis another message to congratulate him. Louis hasn’t been online since early this morning, and Harry doesn’t expect him to receive it until this evening with match days being as hectic as they are, but he wants Louis to know he’s been thinking of him. 

In fact, he finds himself so busy all afternoon that he doesn’t have a moment to so much as think of checking his phone for a reply. Instead, he spends it discussing tactics against Raonic with his coaching team, replaying his old matches and trying to find a strategy to at least win a set, if nothing else. Despite all of them knowing that his first Grand Slam will be cut short, it’s a good springboard and experience for the future, so the spirits are high nevertheless, and when he does his final training of the day on-court that evening, it’s with a smile on his face and sweat dripping down his back. 

Only when he collapses into his hotel bed after a cold shower to cool himself down does he remember to dig his phone out of his tennis bag and check for any messages. There’s a few from his friends and family, but none from Louis – there is, however, a knock on his door at the precise same time Harry opens their chat to see if he’s seen the messages. 

He quickly throws on some boxer briefs and an old tank top, not bothering with shorts – like some instinct, he already knows who is on the other side of the door, and he doubts his half-dressed state will put them off. He rushes to the door and then quickly doubles back to the nearest mirror to arrange his wet curls into some semblance of order. There’s not much to be done, wild as they are, but at least now they’re spread around his head in even proportions. 

He stumbles to the door before the second knock comes and opens it to find a soft looking Louis in front of him, similarly in a tank top but with denim shorts on and fringe swooping across his forehead, any gel clearly foregone. He smells of clean, fresh citrus and his eyes sparkle with easy joy that only a clear win can give. Harry’s inner omega nearly collapses at the sight. 

“Sorry I didn’t call or text ahead. I hope it’s not too much trouble I stopped by,” he says, but halfway through the sentence Harry is already pulling him in by his arm and shaking his head. 

“Of course it’s not. I always want to see you,” Harry replies, then stares at Louis with wide eyes when he realises what he’s said. Too honest, even for Harry. 

Louis grins and puts a firm hand on Harry’s waist, drawing him into his space. 

“That’s nice, because I always want to see you, too,” he says through his smile and squeezes Harry’s side. “You look tired.” 

Harry shakes his head again. At this rate, his curls will dry in record time. 

“Not too tired. I still want to congratulate you on your win,” he disagrees, then makes his way to sit on his bed and pats the space next to him. Louis moves cautiously, eyeing the pulled back covers with suspicion, but takes a seat next to Harry. His face doesn’t show much of what he’s thinking, but it’s still inviting, so Harry’s leans into his side and nuzzles into him when Louis’ hand pets at his hair. 

“Well, now you have. Were you about to go to sleep, little darling?” he asks, scratching at Harry’s scalp gently and making Harry sink further into him. 

“No,” Harry lies petulantly, closing his eyes and inhaling Louis’ scent. His thoughts slow down somewhat, and he sinks deeper into the bed, the stress and weight of the day catching up to him in the form of tiredness. He’s exhausted, but it’s more important that Louis is here. “I’m wide awake,” he mumbles into Louis’ chest, otherwise unmoving. 

“Practically bouncing off the walls, you are,” Louis snorts. “I don’t want to keep you up when you have a match tomorrow. Tell you what, I’ll tuck you in, and we’ll do something tomorrow evening. Okay?” 

Harry considers the proposition for exactly a second before nodding his agreement. He pries his eyes open and turns his head to find Louis watching him with a smile on his face. Without thinking about it, he lifts his face to press a tiny, light kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth. 

“That can be arranged,” he agrees, and shuffles to the top of the bed to slide under the covers. Harry observes him curiously while Louis helps him get settled, double checks that his alarm is on and that he has a water bottle on the night stand next to him before moving to place the covers on top of Harry. 

Harry blinks up at him from where his head rests on a freshly fluffed pillow. Then, he undoes Louis’ careful work with the blanket and lifts the corner closest to him up. The cold air that permeates his cocoon is nothing compared to the warm body that slides next to his a moment later, Louis rolling his eyes fondly. 

“This wasn’t the agreement,” he protests, but pulls Harry into him all the same. Harry settles against him, wraps his arms around Louis’ body, already half asleep. 

“And yet, here you are,” he replies victoriously, words slurred half from his tired state and half from how close to Louis he is. 

“And yet here I am,” Louis agrees, warm breath lulling Harry further under. “Good night, little darling.” 

“Good night, Lou.” 

*** 

When Harry slides into Louis’ box two days later, ready to cheer him on in his third-round match, to his surprise neither Lottie nor Fizzy are on their phones, and Liam looks like his favourite gym just announced a permanent closure. He doesn’t need to say a word to note the tension among the people in the box, but when he greets them, the strained smiles he receives are more than enough to clue him in on the fact that something’s wrong. 

“Louis has bitten our heads off this morning,” Fizzy shrugs. “Started off by yelling at us for being late when we arrived ten minutes _before_ he told us to be here.” 

Lottie nods miserably from next to her. 

“They should put his name next to ‘moody bastard’ in the dictionary,” she agrees, leaning onto the barrier in front of her and crossing her arms. 

Harry takes a look at Liam. “And you?” 

“He got angry that I’m wearing colour –,” he points to the black brogues on his feet “– and told me to fuck off if I’m not going to support him in adhering to the white dress code.” 

Harry barely supresses a laugh, but only through an incredibly amount of willpower. 

“He does know you’re not a player, right? The dress code doesn’t apply to you,” he says instead to comfort Liam, who shrugs in response. 

“You try telling him that,” Liam sighs with the exasperation of someone who had done just that and apparently regretted it after. 

They’re interrupted by Fizzy elbowing Liam rather aggressively. 

“There goes the wanker,” she whispers even though they’re well out of hearing range from where Louis is, indeed, walking on court with his opponent. He stares pointedly at the ground, doesn’t look up even when the audience erupts into applause and shouts, and practically stomps to his bench. Lottie mumbles something unintelligible under her breath. 

Harry keeps his eyes on Louis as he rifles through his bag for a minute, furrows his eyebrows at something, and does a second round of all the compartments of his tennis bag. He hears a grunt before Louis gets up from his seat and addresses the umpire. 

“I left my tennis shoes in the locker room,” he says. The umpire looks at him incredulously. “Is there someone who can get them?” 

Harry can’t hear the rest of the conversation, but he does hear Liam’s frustrated sigh. 

“He should be more worried about his own wardrobe, shouldn’t he,” Liam mutters, and Lottie and Fizzy are quick to agree. 

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t gone out last night,” Lottie says, and Harry feels a pinprick of guilt somewhere in his chest. 

The previous day he had indeed lost his match against Raonic – he wasn’t surprised or particularly upset, but a loss was still a loss, and following, his spirits weren’t very high. Niall, on the other hand, had a bit more luck in his game, and when Louis came to find Harry having his first proper dessert in weeks in front of a jealous Niall, he suggested they go to the pub in an outing to celebrate Niall’s win and cheer Harry up at the same time. Louis and Niall got on like a house on fire, and not five minutes later they had already exchanged numbers and found a suitable pub nearby. 

Harry didn’t think they drank that much; they only had a couple of beers each, Harry indulging in one more as he was no longer on the strict Grand Slam diet – well, while out of Nick’s sight, anyway. None of them got to the point of being drunk, and they got back to the hotel at a reasonable hour. Harry didn’t think it would have any impact on Louis at all after he woke up. 

Clearly, he was wrong. 

“That’s on me, actually,” he winces. “He took me out to cheer me up after my loss yesterday,” he confesses, and feels a bit better when Liam pats him on his knee comfortingly. His or not, it still felt good to have an Alpha’s approval. “Sorry,” he bites his lip. 

Lottie turns to him from her seat and moves her sunglasses off her face, propping them up on her head. “Harry, I’m not blaming you. Louis does irresponsible stuff all the time and he’s a bit of an idiot when it comes to remembering that such a thing as consequences exist. Don’t feel bad, please,” she pouts, her voice kind. 

Harry still feels anxious in his chest, but her words soothe him a little bit. It doesn’t help that Louis is in the predicament that he is at the moment, but knowing he isn’t the only one to blame for it is reassuring. He doesn’t want to be the reason Louis is in a bad mood, even indirectly, or sabotages himself in any way. He does remember from his previous knowledge of him, mainly gathered through the media and hours spent searching _Louis Tomlinson shirtless_ on the internet, that Louis has a wild streak and is often seen out instead of training before his own matches; but, well, Harry guesses he never cared so much previously. Now, when he wants to jump over the railing and onto the grass and return the favour by making Louis feel better, it’s different. 

Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek as a ballboy brings Louis his shoes and the match gets on its way not long after. 

Harry spends the majority of the match either worrying his lower lip or mentally telling himself to calm down and remain in his seat. With each hit to the ball he can practically feel the negative energy around Louis grow and expand, both of them getting more and more tense as the games finish and convert to a set for Louis’ opponent. The crowd isn’t on Louis’ side today either, clearly cluing onto his foul mood and harbouring it against him. The atmosphere in the box isn’t much better, either – he catches Lottie and Fizzy sharing a long look with each other after Louis lets out a particularly colourful string of swearwords following a double fault, and when Harry glances at Liam, he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. 

It all comes to a head when Louis is a set and a break point down, sitting on the bench between games and stewing in the hot sun overhead. The umpire has just denied Louis his latest challenge, insisting Louis called it too late, causing a loud exchange of words between him and the umpire. Louis stomps off, with members of the crowd heckling him as he takes the seat, shaking his head side to side in visible frustration. 

Harry feels it before it happens, and then observes it as if through a fog: Louis mutters something to himself, takes a sip of his water bottle and corks it. He bounces his foot up and down, a nervous tick Harry has seen many times on-screen – and then, like something within him snaps, he launches the water bottle at the foot of the umpire’s chair, the bottle colliding with the metal and making a loud noise on impact. Lottie gasps from two seats away, while Fizzy raises her eyebrows in shock and Liam whispers out ‘ _Christ’_. 

Harry watches as Louis sits back and closes his eyes, breathes. A code violation is called from the speakers, a low hum of the crowd turning into momentary booing. He might be a Brit in a home tournament, exhibiting all the behaviour that is sometimes nearly expected of Alphas, but the crowd still turns against him. In peripheral vision Harry sees Liam slide down in his seat and cover his face in his hands, while Harry bites at his knuckles, draped over the edge of the court. He’s both anxious _for_ and _because_ of Louis, is torn between wanting to catch his attention to soothe him and leave him alone to let him concentrate. He doesn’t know Louis well enough to know how he deals with these situations, but the instinct to do something and fix the situation is ingrained in Harry like no other. He feels restless, helpless to sit and watch as his Alpha struggles. 

His Alpha. 

Well, that’s a thought for another time. 

Harry holds his breath as time is called and Louis gets up to play again. It’s his turn to serve, which should bring him some confidence – and it does, if only for a tiny while. He bounces the ball and serves underarm, the ball easily gliding past the opponent and converting into an ace. For a second, Louis looks relieved, and Harry nearly lets out a sigh of relief, the pressure in him slightly easing. The crowd applauds and cheers, pleased to see him start off the game on a better note. The comfort is short-lived, however, when a member of the audience shouts at Louis. 

“You’re a dick!” 

Louis turns on his heels from where he was preparing to serve again and heads towards where the audience member is sat. Harry grips the edge of the box tightly, the tips of his fingers colouring white with the pressure. He knows how explosive Louis can be, how tough it is for him to hold his tongue – in ways both good and bad. He’s pretty sure there will be nothing good about his response. He locates the audience member, an arrogant looking middle-aged Alpha sat behind the service line. 

“You got free tickets, mate? Why are you watching me if you don’t like the way I play? Got nothing better to do?” he practically growls, figurative hackles visibly rising. 

The other Alpha doesn’t back down. 

“Underarm? Really? Learn to play,” he scoffs, the audience around them whistling, whether at Louis or the crowd member, Harry isn’t sure. 

“Leave if you don’t like it,” Louis shouts at him, the words coming out rough, bordering on using his Alpha voice. To Harry’s surprise, he follows it up with an eyeroll and turns back around, clearly intent on carrying on with the game. Harry watches as he serves a beautiful point, rallying for a few seconds before Louis runs up to the net and volleys, putting the ball in the bottom left corner of the court where his opponent can’t reach it. 

Harry thinks Louis has maybe found his momentum, will capitalise on it, but instead, on the next serve he connects his racket to the ball from below, shooting another underarm serve. Harry thinks he can see a tiny smirk on Louis’ face, particularly when the same Alpha from before gets up from his seat. 

“Arsehole! You’re a disgrace to this game.” 

Without missing a beat, Louis shouts back. “Why aren’t you spending your day with your family? Where’s your family? Got nothing better to do?” 

Louis confirms what Harry thought he saw a second ago when he breaks out into a smile, as tense as it might be, and closes the distance between himself and the other Alpha again. He digs around in his tennis shorts for a ball and, laughing, softly tosses it towards the man. 

“Here, catch this,” he mocks, and when the Alpha does, Louis breaks out into a sarcastic clap. For once, the audience is along for the ride with him, cheering and applauding in support, and a second later the man is approached by security to escort him out. 

Despite the attitude of the crowd, the umpire gives Louis another code violation for delaying the game, the announcement coming from the speakers. Louis takes a moment to watch the man be led out by the guards, then shrugs and grins a more carefree smile as if to say _worth it_. 

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and finally reclines in his seat, prying his fingers off from where they’ve been gripping the edge of the box this whole time. He hears a snort from his right, and as he turns around, he sees Fizzy and Lottie’s amused faces staring at him. 

“You’re so sweet, worrying this much,” Lottie laughs at him, and reaches over Fizzy and Liam to pat his arm. 

“Clearly haven’t been to many of Louis’ matches yet. You get used to it,” Fizzy agrees. 

Harry furrows his brows. 

“I can’t imagine getting used to this. That Alpha was so rude to him,” he grunts, but Lottie just laughs at him good naturedly. 

“It’s fine, Harry. This happens more often than you’d think. They just do it ‘cause they can get a rise out of him easily,” Lottie explains, and focuses back on the game where Louis is in the middle of an intense rally. 

Looking at him, it’s like a switch has been turned: all of his shots are precise, his legwork is accurate and he chases after each point, keeping his opponent on the run. Not a moment later his opponent fails to reach a perfect shot Louis lands on the side line, converting it into a set for Louis. Harry feels something akin to pride swell inside his chest. 

The rest of the match passes in the same vein – Louis doesn’t falter much and keeps his head in the game, even successfully ignoring another heckler in the last set. Instead, he wins point after point, and less than two hours later he is being saluted by a standing ovation as he jumps in victory. He signs some autographs and gives a quick interview, while Harry and the rest of Louis’ box pack up and free the space for the guests of the next game. 

He bids goodbye to Liam and Louis’ sisters and heads off the court, aiming to catch the afternoon snack bar in the players’ canteen. He thinks he can just about make it and sends a silent prayer to the Wimbledon gods for allowing players into the canteen even after they’re out of the tournament. If Harry had known about the food they served at Grand Slams, that might have been enough training motivation on its own for a full year. 

He makes it ten minutes before the serving stops and grabs a raspberry compote yogurt and a bowl of protein balls, making his way to the seating area. It’s pretty empty and he doesn’t see anyone he is close enough to join, so he settles alone at a table towards the front of the canteen, facing one of the television screens. It’s set on BBC, broadcasting the highlights of the day. 

Harry pays it little attention, instead choosing to go through his notifications. There’s a missed call from Gemma, so he dials her number and digs into his yogurt. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“I have several complaints,” she starts, barely giving him time to breathe out a sarcastic _hello, sister dear_. “First of all, you got out of the competition two days ago –,” she continues, Harry interrupting her with an unacknowledged _don’t remind me, “–_ and still no eligible beta player has contacted me with a proposal. What has been more important than finding me a sporty husband? You’re my ticket to getting mum off my back.” 

Harry rolls his eyes at her at the exact same time she says “Don’t roll your eyes at me” over the line. Sisters, honestly. 

Harry traps his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he spoons out the rest of his yogurt. 

“Believe it or not, marrying you off isn’t high on my list of priorities. You’re not a Jane Austen novel protagonist about to turn twenty-five.” 

Gemma lets out a disagreeable noise. 

“Then what is the point of having a hotshot brother?” she asks, perhaps rhetorically. 

“I’m not a hotshot, Gems,” Harry scoffs. He’s barely made it this far. 

“Well, my Instagram notifications beg to differ,” she replies without missing a beat. 

Harry stills with the spoon in his mouth. 

“What Instagram notifications?” he asks in confusion. 

“I’ve gained, like, three thousand followers over the last two days, and every photo I post gets a hundred comments asking me about someone called Larry Sty-,” her voice drifts off as Harry tunes her out, instead focuses on the TV which is showing live footage of Louis walking into the press conference. Something stirs deep inside Harry’ stomach. 

“Gems, I have to go, I’ll call you back,” he excuses himself to protests from her and disconnects the call. 

Louis looks sharp and calm. He’s changed from his tennis kit and clearly showered, if his damp hair is any indication, and if Harry was in the same room with him, he’s sure he couldn’t resist his Omega the satisfaction of curling into his lap and purring. As it is, he shifts in his seat and nervously bites into another protein ball to give his body something to focus on. 

Louis settles in the seat without so much as a smile, nodding at the press, and the session starts off quickly, the room clearly packed. 

The first question kicks things off on a poor note. 

“Do you regret going to the pub last night? Do you think you could have played better if you hadn’t?” the man asks. 

Louis stares at him silently for a second while Harry swallows, all his attention on the tv screen. He might be imagining it, but he feels like even the few other people in the canteen have quietened down to watch the interview. 

“No,” Louis finally replies, stern and uncaring. He continues staring at the report with a defiant look. “You look way too excited to ask that question. You must have a really boring life,” he mutters and shakes his head, while Harry snorts. The reporter should know better than to challenge Louis, particularly after a match like the one he just had. 

There are a few standard questions, which Louis, thank goodness, answers in an appropriate manner, elaborating on his strategy and analysing his opponent’s game, which visibly calms him down. Even Harry can feel his heartbeat slow down, not that he was aware of it speeding up in the last minute. 

He does tell off a reporter for asking two questions in a row, which by his standards isn’t much, but Harry manages to catch a break from the whirlwind of the interview when Louis kindly jokes with another reporter who stumbles over her words, telling her he had seen her in the pub last night. He grins like a mischievous schoolboy while she attempts to compose herself, and while the room laughs, he seems to be instantly forgiven for his straightforward attitude at the beginning of the press conference. 

Harry watches in awe as he seamlessly converts the whole room into adult equivalents of a teenager in love, and Harry can’t help but think that Louis’ charm reaches and wraps around him through the screen, too. 

He giggles when Louis is asked about the underarm serve and why he stopped doing it after the man was removed from the audience. 

Louis bites at his lip coyly. 

“I don’t know, man. If I do something outrageous, I get destroyed in the media for it, –” he looks up at the journalists in front of him in amusement,”– so I thought I would just be professional and normal serve.” He rolls his eyes and lets out a snort. “I’m kidding. Shoot me down for not always serving underarm,” he spreads his arms dramatically, and Harry can practically see the glint in his eyes, the rush he gets from toying with the press. “I do it, I’m the bad guy, I don’t do it, I’m the bad guy. What do you want from me?” he exclaims, then settles down, narrows his eyes at the next reporter. 

Harry bursts out laughing in the canteen, uncaring if someone around him might think he’s lost it. Leave it to him to choose the most hilarious, devilish man of all. He watches the rest of the interview with less interruptions to his snacking, whether because he knows to expect it now (more likely) or Louis schools his behaviour (unlikely, seeing as he manages to give another journalist shit for asking the same question as someone before him), but either way he successfully finishes his food and watches as the number of questions dwindles down, journalists too scared of Louis’ comebacks. 

Harry gets back to his food, nearly done and ready to go annoy Niall when his phone pings with a notification. He had nearly forgotten about it in his haste to watch the interview, but it’s like his body senses when it’s Louis. He rolls his eyes at himself – he's becoming the typical Omega cliché. 

_meet me outside centre court at ten x_

Harry scrambles from his seat as fast as his body lets him, rushing to the bin and then panicking for a second in the middle of the canteen, deciding if he should go change first or rush to the nearby shop to get Louis something, anything as a gift for his win. Despite having nearly two hours, his body seems to kick into action, needing to prepare for seeing Louis again. 

In the end, he decides to do both. He thinks if he’s fast hopping into the shower and changing into something that will make it impossible for Louis to keep his eyes off him, he can make it to the shop just before it closes. Unfortunately, time is not on his side – he gets to the hotel before remembering he forgot his key card in his locker and has to return for it, wasting a precious half-hour on an unnecessary trip. 

After, he struggles to decide on an outfit and eventually, looking at the time risks going to the shop, too – he makes a break for it, quite possibly jostling some milling audience members on his way to the shop, and then stresses his way through the queue of getting inside the Wimbledon shop. It seems the one time he needs to be there, all of London does, too. His plan to be in and out of the shop is halted in its tracks, and he spends fifteen minutes just trying to get in. By the time he’s out, the Wimbledon grounds have never seemed bigger, going between places taking an eternity. 

Louis is there when he arrives, although it takes Harry a while to spot him – it's nearly dark, and despite being the only person in sight, Louis blends into his surroundings. 

He looks more relaxed than he did in the press conference. He doesn’t notice Harry approaching at first, and for a second, Harry takes the time to take him in. 

He’s wearing black slim-fit joggers and a matching vest top, which shows off his rather impressive biceps. Despite being top athletes, not many tennis players have the same definition to their arms that Louis does. Harry has to make a conscious decision not to salivate at the way his tattoos emphasise the curve and stretch of skin over the muscle, so he focuses on Louis’ face instead – which, big mistake. His hair is covered by a black snapback which highlights the sharp angle of his cheekbones and brings out his eyes in a way that practically makes them shine. Harry is done for. 

If Harry didn’t know any better, he might mistake him for any Alpha with an edgy vibe, not an ATP top 10 ranking world-class tennis player – but he’s not just any Alpha. He’s _Harry’s_ Alpha. 

In short, Harry is losing his mind. 

Louis spots him a moment later and his face, previously stoic and collected, blooms into a warm smile that has Harry immediately curling into him as soon as he can, tucking his nose into Louis’ temple to breathe him in. It may not be subtle, but when he feels Louis do the same and the air around them thickening with their combined scents, Harry can’t bring himself to care. 

When they separate, Harry beams at Louis and Louis’ answering smile could melt the legs off from beneath him. He’s an emotional puddle before they’ve even exchanged verbal hellos; Harry is a failure of a human being. 

Louis lifts a hand to Harry’s face and gently tucks a string of curls behind Harry’s ear, whispering a _hi, baby_ as he does so. No matter the bad boy he is on court and in public, he’s the gentlest Alpha around Harry as his face crinkles up and his whole demeanour softens. Harry secretly preens at being the cause for the change. 

“Hi,” he mumbles back, suddenly shy, sure that the heat he feels on his skin is resulting in a very visible blush. He feels Louis’ eyes on him for a second before his hand is enclosed by a smaller one, their fingers tangling effortlessly as Louis starts leading them towards a flight of stairs mounted above the backside of the stadium. 

Harry feels nervous butterflies flutter their wings in his belly, and when Louis sends him a soft smile as if to wordlessly ask ‘ _is this okay?’_ and he nods in response, the feeling only intensifies. It’s embarrassing, really, how Louis turns him into a sixteen-year-old with a crush, but it is what it is. Harry sort of enjoys it, anyway. 

He trails behind Louis, subtly inhaling his scent in his wake and following him through narrow corridors, until a minute later they find themselves in a secluded seating area overlooking the now empty tennis court. It should feel eerie, seeing the place so deserted in the middle of an on-going Grand Slam, but the only thing Harry has at the forefront of his mind is being alone with Louis. Still – 

“How did you get access to the press box?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as he watches Louis settle down in the front row, pulling him towards himself. 

Louis at the very least has the audacity to look sheepish. 

“Liam knows someone who knows someone. Trust me, we’re not breaking in illegally,” he says, then adds so quietly Harry barely catches it, “technically.” 

Harry snorts, but is only too happy to curl into the seat next to Louis, who is fumbling around under his chair. A second later he emerges with a bottle of wine and plastic glasses, settles them in the space between where their seats connect to the floor and the barries and bends back down to continue rustling through something Harry can’t quite see. He can hear a huff, but soon enough Louis turns around with a victorious smile and an assortment of macarons he procured from God knows where. 

“You’re not really meant to eat in the press box, but...” he shrugs mischievously and uncorks the wine bottle, pouring them both a glass. 

Harry stares at him, stunned, and then involuntarily lets out a noise that sounds a bit too much like purring. Sometimes he wishes he could switch his Omega off to not clue Louis onto the state of his nervous system at any given moment quite so easily. Louis, however, looks pleased if anything, and it’s like Harry’s purr – because that’s what it is, really – makes him puff up in pride, take up even more space than he does with the underlying knowledge of making his Omega so comfortable. 

Harry’s eyes are still wide when Louis hands him the wine glass, and he finds himself lost for words at the gesture. 

“What have I done to deserve this?” he enquires, but accepts the glass nevertheless. 

Louis shakes his head. 

“Nothing, you don’t have to do anything to deserve this. Just wanted to thank you for coming to my game today,” he says as they clink and have a tentative sip. 

Harry leans back in his seat as Louis folds his feet on the railing, and only now does he realise how well the timing plays into Louis’ plans; the sky is tinted the slightest pink with the light of the setting sun that, incredibly, the stadium dips just so to reveal, and the heavy clouds from earlier on in the day have dispersed to make for an unobstructed view. It’s nearly as breath-taking as the Alpha next to him, who is already looking back at him when Harry tears his eyes away from the horizon. 

“You don’t have to thank me, you know,” Harry starts shakily, unsure if what’s about to come out of his mouth is too honest, too much, too soon, but the open expression on Louis’ features encourages him, gives him confidence to push past his doubts. “I know it’s not been long, but I feel like I belong in your box,” he confesses, lets the warmth and the intensity of Louis’ gaze seep into him, settle every cell in his body down to his core. 

“Me too, baby,” Louis easily agrees. “I know I wasn’t at my best today, but looking at you sat there, supporting me despite that means the world to me, Harry. Knowing I have you in my corner is something I’d like to get used to, if I’m being honest,” he says, letting the words hang in the air. Harry has a feeling Louis doesn’t often allow himself to be this vulnerable, and the fact that he is using words and not only actions wraps around him soothingly, makes the tips of his fingers tingle with how much he wants to reach out. 

It doesn’t take long for him to figure out that there’s no reason he can’t, and so he pries the glass out of Louis’ grasp and places it under the seats, slowly climbing into Louis’ lap and rearranging his limbs until Louis has his hands on Harry’s hips and Harry is hovering slightly above him. 

He wants to kiss him, mould their lips against each other and trace the shape with his tongue, but he has something he wants to give him first, before he gets lost in the moment. He dips his hand into the pocket of his shorts, feeling for the rectangular box digging into his thigh and thrusting it into Louis’ hand. 

Louis looks up at him, eyes a bright blue, and proceeds to open the box, carefully taking out the contents and inspecting them. 

“It’s a bit tacky, I know, but I thought you might like it,” Harry explains as Louis holds the bracelet. It’s thin, with simple black leather straps connected in the middle by a charm, two tiny silver tennis rackets crossed on top of each other. “Silly, I know, but I thought the two rackets could be, like, us, and you’d have something to remind you of me to wear on court,” he speaks quickly, bashfully, now in the moment completely unsure of whether Louis will like it. Back in the shop, with limited amount of time and an even more limited selection Harry hadn’t overthought it, had gone with his gut instinct – and he doesn’t regret it now, not exactly, but he does wish he had considered it for a bit longer. 

All of his internal panic dims in comparison to the look on Louis’ face though – he doesn’t hesitate to stretch out his left wrist, silently asking Harry to loop the bracelet around it, and as soon as the charm glints securely fastened against his tan skin, Louis pulls him into a tender kiss. When they part, Harry can smell the Alpha scent surrounding him get thicker with affection, blanketing him in from each side. 

“Not silly, darling, not at all. I love it,” Louis assures him, petting Harry’s side. In turn, he takes Harry’s wrist between his own hands, and giving Harry every opportunity to pull away which he rather excitedly disregards, brings them to his face, puffing out air over them and pressing a feather-light kiss to the insides. He then moves to Harry’s neck, doing the exact same to the sensitive skin just under Harry’s ear, switches sides until Harry is putty under his lips, his insides melting for his Alpha. 

“I will wear it every match,” Louis promises against his skin, causing Harry to tremble against him, every cell in his body willing to give himself to Louis. “I love that you thought of me.” 

Harry mewls when Louis decides he is sufficiently scented, not letting him go far as he carefully shifts Harry around in his lap, turning them both towards where the sky is more prominently pastel, pinks and purples mixing together to create a surreal painting. 

Harry leans his head against Louis, relaxes into his hold and lets his weight settle against his side, and they quiet down, breathing soon synchronising to match each other. They spend the next hour like that, wordlessly watching the sunset as Louis feeds Harry macarons and occasionally lets calming hormones wash over the invisible cocoon they’ve created for themselves, holding him close the whole time. 

By the end of the night, Harry has zero doubts he has found his mate. 

*** 

Louis’ next match is against Shawn, which proves tricky for Harry. Not because Louis plays poorly, or because the match is boring – but because the morning of, as he walks into Niall’s room unannounced to bully him into joining him for a mutually torturous 7am jog, he walks in on Shawn wrapped around Niall in his bed, the both of them gently snoring. 

On the one hand, as someone who has shared hotel key cards with Niall for the past few years, he is somewhat surprised this situation hasn’t happened to him before; though Niall rarely lets anyone sleep in his bed, Harry knows his last girlfriend had visited him on tour a couple of times, and before that he had been fond of working off the stress with strangers here and there. Harry should have known his luck would run out eventually, but he definitely hadn’t been expecting it today. Not that you can really expect to walk in on this sort of thing. 

He had talked to Niall about Shawn a couple days prior, getting some positive vibes from him, and had relayed this to Shawn via text while pretending to be interested in Nick’s training strategy meeting. Shawn had only texted him back with a winky face, and Harry had left it at that, assuming Niall would put two and two together and tell him off for setting them up. Clearly, Niall had been busy doing other things. 

Harry supposes that definitely means he should be woken up and dragged out of bed, as comfortable as he looks. 

He thinks quick on his feet, wracking his brain for an efficient yet annoying way to wake the sleeping pair up, and a second later when the idea strikes him, feels around in his pockets for his phone. He puts it on mute, ensuring his typing won’t wake them up, and pulls up Spotify to find a playlist to fit what he has in mind. 

He gently extends his arm so his phone is hovering above Niall and Shawn’s heads, and presses play. 

Niall’s reaction doesn’t disappoint: as soon as the violent screaming starts filtering through the speaker, he jolts awake and shrieks, jerking towards the wall to get away from the noise and hitting his forehead against it in the process. 

Harry starts giggling, pausing ‘ _scariest horror sounds’_ and amusedly watching as Niall reaches for his face, moaning in pain and kicking a leg out. Shawn, surprisingly, doesn’t take as badly to being awakened in such a cruel manner, and sleepily blinks his eyes open, clearly startled but remaining fairly calm despite it. 

He reaches out to run a hand over Niall’s arm in what appears to be a soothing gesture, but quickly retrieves it once he realises who was the cause of the sound going off in the first place. 

Harry is still shaking with laughter, unable to tear his eyes off from where Niall has now sat up and is looking around with wide eyes, breathing quickly. He smiles at Shawn, though, feeling a bit bad for involving him in this, but if he plans to be with Niall long-term, he’s sure it’s well deserved. 

Shawn actually smiles up at him shyly, which might just be testament to how sweet he is, but also makes Harry pleased he’s not trying to explain the situation away – Niall could definitely use someone like that. 

“Shotgun best man!” Harry exclaims before Shawn has a chance to say anything, his brain cutting past this situation and straight to the important stuff. 

Niall wails from his side of the bed, but Harry suspects that has more to do with his forehead which has now gone a deep red colour. Shawn, on the other hand lets out a small laugh. 

“Maybe let us figure out some things first,” he says not unkindly, and his smile lets Harry know he has every intention of doing so, instead of leaving this as a short-lived encounter. Harry nods in approval, even if no one asked him, and he might look somewhat silly to them with no context to his thoughts. 

“You absolute cunt of a wankbag, why the fuck did you do that?” comes Niall’s aggravated voice, accent even thicker so early in the morning. He has finally lowered both hands back down from his face, but the expression he’s sporting is one Harry last saw on him when he stole chips from him without asking first – a serious offence in Niall’s books. 

Harry snorts, feeling zero pity for him. Maybe if he had actually told Harry, only his best friend, about this recent development, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now, but he doesn’t bother explaining that to Niall. He just shrugs as casually as he can. 

“We’re going for a run,” he tells him decisively, and points an accusatory finger at him when Niall groans. “No complaining, Niall. You have five minutes or I’m telling your mother you have a boyfriend.” 

Niall glares at him, but when Shawn places a gentle hand on his thigh and they share a glance, his expression softens. Interesting. 

“Go,” he tells him softly. “And buy Harry breakfast afterwards. Trust me, we have him to thank for this,” he gestures between them at Niall’s questioning gaze, then kisses him and pushes at him to get up. 

Harry _most definitely_ approves of Shawn. 

After such an exchange it’s then hard to cheer against Shawn that afternoon. He’s not technically cheering against Shawn, to be honest, and more for Louis, but in the end that’s one in the same, and he feels a guilty twinge in his gut when Shawn shakes the umpire's hand first after the match, Louis hanging back as the winner. He doesn’t dwell on it too much, mainly because Lottie chooses that moment to announce that Louis’ mum will be coming down to watch his next match, which sends him into a spiral of his own. 

He’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. 

*** 

Louis’ mum is, simply put, a wonderful woman. Harry knows this the moment he sees her approach their box, two younger girls in tow; she presses kisses to both of her older daughters’ cheeks, Lottie and Fizzy making room for their younger siblings, and then proceeds to smack Liam’s head gently when he curses in his haste to remove his feet off the railing where he’s been comfortably lounging for the past five minutes. 

“You’re ruining my public tough boy image, Jay,” he complains, standing up to receive the same cheek-kiss treatment Lottie and Fizzy have just undergone. 

Jay shakes her head, laughing. 

“World famous pop star or not, I’ve seen you in your nappies and I don’t plan on letting you slack off just because of that,” she explains, her Alpha demeanour coming through very clearly from the get-go. 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Liam grins, settling back down into his seat after hugging Louis’ younger sisters. 

“Besides, I promised your mother a full report,” Jay adds amusedly. “Apparently you haven’t called in two days.” 

Liam grunts and rolls his eyes. 

“I called her this bloody morning, what is she on about?” he protests, moving to let the trio past and towards Harry. Harry feels his heartbeat pick up – his track record of meeting mothers is excellent, if he does say so himself, but he’s never exactly had to meet his mate’s mother before. That’s a terrifying thought. 

Jay’s eyes sparkle the same way Louis’ do when he’s happy, and before they’ve even said a single word to each other, he already feels more at ease. As Jay moves to give him a hug and her scent permeates his nostrils, he recognises the very familiar honey and mint undertones. 

She then steps back about an arm’s length, and her kind eyes sweep over him. Inexplicably, it doesn’t feel judgemental, but rather comforting. 

“So you’re my son's Omega,” she says, simple as breathing, and Harry – well, Harry is powerless to do anything but nod. After all, she can probably smell Louis’ pheromones on him, and Harry would bet his money on Lottie having told her something or other based on how she’s treated him so far – like a family member, really. 

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Jay,” Harry says, and can’t help the smile that overtakes his face at the fond expression on Jay’s features, a near perfect match to Louis’. 

“You too, darling,” she replies and gives his curls a squeeze in a motherly manner. It reminds him of how Louis has taken a liking to calling him ‘little darling’, and works to further soothe his nerves. “Seeing you on the telly did little to actually get to know you, although Phoebe here –,” she nudges one of the young girls chatting to Lottie, “–insisted we look up your old matches on YouTube, so apologies if we know weird facts about your career statistics.” 

Harry giggles, pleased at Louis’ family apparently so excited to meet him they resorted to the frankly limited online content to research him. 

The girl Jay had disturbed goes a bit red in the face and whines at her mother, turning to whisper something in her twin’s ear. 

Jay rolls her eyes. 

“Pre-teens, eh?” She sighs, settling down into her seat between Harry and Liam and telling the girls to do the same. They follow suit, grumbling but complying, 

When Louis’ game starts, Harry can immediately tell it’s going to be one of the tougher ones. Louis seems to be in his head from the get go, his opponent breaking his serve the very first game, and from there on it’s all downhill. He gets mouthy with the umpire when the umpire refuses him a challenge and earning himself an official warning when he calls him “ _a potato with legs and arms_ ”, and then proceeds to sulk his way through the whole first set, only winning a game before he settles into his seat to continue glaring at the stadium at large. 

Harry feels powerless to do something, somehow make it better the same way Louis had done before, but the only thing he can do is sit and wring his hands nervously. He starts chewing on his lip, and by the time Louis gets ready to serve again, he barely notices the antsy up-and-down bounce of his knee. 

He only looks up when Jay’s hand settles over his arm, and she lets a calming wave of Alpha pheromones wash over Harry. It’s not the same, but it helps, and it’s familiar enough to prevent his blood pressure from completely spiking. 

“You’re gonna have to get used to this if you plan on watching more of his matches,” she laughs, not unkindly. “It’s that, or you burn your nervous system down to a crisp.” 

Harry looks at her, not sure if he agrees – he's allowed to be stressed for his Alpha, particularly in a situation like this; it’s practically hard coded into him. 

Jay seems to be able to read his mind, as she quickly continues. 

“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for him. He can probably feel how on edge _you_ are,” she says, and Harry – well, Harry hadn’t considered that. He conveniently forgot that feeling the other’s emotions goes both ways, and the way Harry was always, consciously or not, on the lookout for how Louis was feeling, Louis would probably be doing the same from his end, receptive to Harry’s moods just the same. 

He takes a deep breath and stills his foot, trying to get the racing of his mind to slow down, and out of the corner of his eyes sees Jay nod at him approvingly. 

Harry getting his nerves under control doesn’t mean Louis miraculously composes himself, though. He does win a few games, tied at 4-4 with Shapovalov, who seems focused if more and more tired by the second. Harry observes as Louis starts responding to his serves more and more aggressively but with less precision, which results in him getting clearly more frustrated with each shot, whether he wins or loses the point. By the time he’s up a break, about to serve for the set, he’s cursing under his breath and receiving looks from the umpire. Really, Harry should have seen it coming that the moment Louis sits down, having managed to equal them at 1-1, he receives a code violation for unsportsmanlike conduct. 

Harry feels it in his veins more than sees it happen – Louis’ blood boils and something inside him snaps, and before he rationally knows what he’s doing or has a chance to think it through, he’s getting up and getting out of the box, making a beeline for the corridor leading to players’ dressing rooms. He pauses enough to hear Louis tell the umpire he needs to use the bathroom, and a minute later as Harry flashes his players’ badge to the security guard, he sees Louis at the other end of the corridor leading to the stadium entrance. He smells him from meters away, the air heavy with his unmistakable irritation. He watches Louis inhale slowly, so visibly forcibly composed it looks painful, and then smash his racket against the floor, causing it to bend and a loud _crack_ to echo through the hallway. 

Louis breathes heavily, hands clenched around the racket, before the hits the racket against the floor again, growling lowly in frustration. It makes the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up, but he presses on, knowing his presence won’t be unwanted no matter the headspace Louis is in. 

When their eyes meet, Louis looks at him with wide, dark eyes. Harry moves at a slow pace so as not to startle him, like he would approach a wild animal, and somehow succeeds in getting himself into Louis’ space, crowding up against him. 

He places his hands around Louis’ jaw, cradling his face and lightly tracing his cheekbone with a thumb, feeling the thin skin over it. Louis swallows audibly, and Harry can sense the rapid beating of his heart, how quickly the blood is shifting in his veins. He looks angry, beyond frustrated, but he doesn’t pull away at Harry’s touch, which he counts as a win. 

His lips are slightly parted, half-scowling, and the sharp puffs of air leaving between them come out stilted. 

Harry slowly, cautiously brings their faces together, nuzzles into Louis’s hair and stays still, counting seconds in his head. He gets to eleven before he feels Louis shift, relax against him and the invisible knot in Harry’s gut undoes itself just the tiniest bit. 

“You okay?” he whispers, afraid of speaking too loudly in case it pushes Louis back to where he was a minute ago. 

Louis growls again, clenches his jaw, but puts just enough space between them to look Harry in the eye. Harry continues softly tracing his features until Louis’ breathing stabilises, and slowly cascades the fingers of his right hand down Louis’ arm and all the way to his wrist. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he settles his thumb over the charm and presses it into Louis’ skin, a reminder that even if Harry can’t be with him on-court, a part of him is. 

Louis seems to read the silent message and nods slightly, the echo of his heartbeat calming down in Harry’s mind. 

“There you go, babe” he murmurs, keeping his voice as level as possible. “You gotta focus, you can do it.” He keeps up a stream of soothing words until he feels Louis sway towards him a bit, but once he does it again, Harry realises it’s deliberate, and this is Louis wordlessly asking for more. 

Harry nuzzles even closer, feeling his heart expand in his ribcage, and for all that it’s inappropriate in a place as public as they are, knowing there might be cameras on them, he lets himself scent Louis, covering him in his own scent. They stay like that for half a minute, wrapped up in their own cloud, breathing in the concentrated air that is _them,_ where the rest of the world doesn’t matter, and when Louis pulls away, the proverbial clouds have cleared as he looks less murderous and more determined. Harry entangles their hands for a moment, pleased to find Louis had unclenched his fist at some point, and sends him off to get back to the match. 

Louis turns around just as he’s about to step out into the stadium, and his lips quirk up the tiniest bit. Harry can, suddenly, breathe properly for the first time since he left the box. 

He returns to where Louis’ family is watching Louis receive a time violation from the umpire, but instead of an insult Harry is sure is on the tip of his tongue, Louis lets it go unmentioned. 

Harry, instead, feels himself blush under the watchful eyes of Louis’ family and Liam, and pretends to cough while taking his seat to avoid any conversation being started with him. It’s one thing knowing your son is going out with someone, and completely another seeing that said someone scent their son in public. 

Without taking the credit, Harry can see the change in Louis – he's more patient, more focused, and when he makes a mistake, he doesn’t dwell on it. His points start stacking up and Harry can sense his confidence return and grow with every winner he scores. 

Harry breathes a sigh of relief and notices he unclenches his fingers from the railing where he has been clutching onto it so hard the skin by his fingertips is white. He feels the air around them shift and realises Louis’ family has also let out a breath they were all communally holding in. 

The rest of the match is smooth sailing – Louis doesn’t lose his cool once, even though he does come close once or twice judging by his expression, and wins the next two sets to send Shapovalov home and progress to the semi-finals. 

Jay jumps up victoriously and wraps Harry in a hug as soon as the match concludes, the whole box proceeding to celebrate Louis’ victory. It’s not the first time Louis has made it this far in a Grand Slam, never mind any tournament, but Harry gets a feeling that to Louis’ family it doesn’t matter – they still whoop and congratulate each other like it’s the first time. Harry watches them fondly as Louis comes over before the interview and kisses his mum’s cheek, accepting her compliments. 

They watch Louis’ post-match interview as he explains his strategy, and when the stadium starts emptying out not soon after, they start packing up along with everyone. Jay excuses herself, saying she’d love to stay and celebrate with them but has her youngest children to take care of, to which Harry waves her off with promises to do so another time. 

Jay scurries the twins along, Harry moving to pack his own bag, and right before she steps out, she stills for a moment. 

“Harry?” Jay asks, patiently waiting for Harry to turn around and look at her. “I’m glad it’s you.” 

Harry blushes, but nods in understanding. He’s glad it’s him, too. 

*** 

While overall Harry might not agree with Louis on the topic of having a coach, one instance where it actually comes in handy is after the match. Louis doesn’t have team commitments of attending post-match briefings or devising a strategy for his next round, and so barely a half hour after he clears the stadium, Harry gets to have him all to himself. 

He is thrilled, _giddy_ , at the prospect of seeing Louis after their encounter in the stadium hallway, energy thrumming in his veins with anticipation. He’s been pacing back and forth in his hotel room, waiting for the knock to come after he had texted Louis to come over, and when he finally hears the sound of knuckles against his door, he nearly launches himself at it in excitement. 

The second he opens the door, Louis’ scent hits him, strong and prominent and spicier than before. He smells _irresistible_ , and Harry doesn’t even try to contain himself – he presses into Louis’ space before the door is even fully closed, hearing a deep growl emanate from Louis’ chest as Harry pulls him into a heated kiss, moulding their lips against each other with all the passion burning inside him. 

Louis is just as keen. Harry barely registers him throwing his tennis bag to the side before Louis is grabbing at his body with one hand and tugging at Harry’s curls with another, the growl never stopping but growing in intensity. Louis’ hand slides to Harry’s arse, and save for a quick squeeze, continues to his upper thigh to tap it twice. 

Harry gets the message immediately and jumps up, wrapping his legs around Louis’ waist only to feel his hand return to Harry’s arse again. The strength of holding up their combined weight has Harry writhing in Louis’ arms, opening his mouth to welcome Louis’ tongue in, and if he wasn’t already wet, he’s sure by now he would definitely be soaking through his underwear. 

Louis must be able to smell it, too, or maybe even feel it, and he groans, his scent getting even more powerful, his kisses hungrier. Harry whines in response, a sound high in his throat, and he might be embarrassed about it later, but for now all that matters is that Louis is here and yet too far away. 

Somehow, very potentially solely through willpower, they make it to the bed, where Louis deposits Harry square in the middle and climbs over him. He stills for a second, not moving, at which Harry quirks an eyebrow. 

Louis shakes his head, a slight blush gracing his face. Harry would think it’s from arousal if not from the tiny smile on his face he does nothing to hide. 

“I don’t know if I've told you, but you’re beautiful,” Louis tells him, bold and honest. Harry’s heart stops beating for a second, maybe, and he sort of wants to make fun of him, but he doesn’t. Instead, he beams up at him. 

“You are too,” he easily returns the compliment – and it’s true, even if Harry hasn’t told him so before. He is beautiful – physically, with his clear blue eyes and the crinkles of his eyes, the careful sculpt of his body, the way he carries himself so confidently and unapologetically, but also in other ways: how he treats Harry, how he is unabashedly himself, how he is a complex construction of softness and sharp angles. “You take my breath away.” 

Louis moves then, carefully slots himself into Harry until their lips are just a millimetre apart, and somehow despite the situation, despite the hardness of his dick pressing into Harry’s thigh, this moment feels so innocent. His lips are a soft caress against Harry’s, a warmth Harry chases after when they part. 

They close the gap again, and Louis’ hands wander under the hem of Harry’s shirt, feeling the thin skin stretched over his lower tummy. It’s not the first time for them by any means, Harry’s heat having taken care of that, but it feels like it is – every sensation is a novelty, every inch of skin a new discovery. 

Louis is gentle as he takes Harry’s shirt off, attaching his mouth to the base of his neck, licking at it and making Harry shiver. The layer of Louis’ own shirt is an unnecessary barrier, in Harry’s opinion, and so he tugs at it until Louis gets the hint and flings it off himself and somewhere to the side. He slides their shorts and pants down, too, and somehow seeing Louis in all his naked glory makes Harry’s breath hitch. 

Maybe it’s the knowledge of where they stand, what this means to the both of them, but just being in his presence now overwhelms Harry more than taking his whole knot had last time. 

Louis’ fingers map their way across Harry’s body, past his hard cock and the crease of his thigh to feel where he is wet, tease at his hole as Harry whimpers and writhes under him. Louis’ gaze stays on him the whole time, never breaking eye contact, and his eyes are so intense Harry nearly wants to look away. He daren’t. 

Louis sinks two fingers in slowly, waiting for Harry to arch up against him, and quiets him with his mouth, other hand next to Harry’s head and gently stroking his hair. Harry spares a thought for how his shoulder must be killing, and then promptly loses all coherent thinking ability when Louis’ fingers hit something inside him. 

He hears chanting coming from somewhere, needy and bordering on desperate, and it takes him to realise it’s result of him begging Louis to fuck him, asking him to knot him over and over again. 

Louis complies, of course, letting Harry out of his agony once he feels his cock lining up and pushing in, filling the emptiness the fingers weren’t enough to satisfy. 

“My Omega,” Louis whispers against his mouth, covering his body with his own, hips moving slowly. He tilts Harry’s head, their breaths synchronising as his movements become more precise and determined. With every thrust Louis’ stomach brushes against Harry’s hard cock, trapped between their bodies and getting the bare minimum of friction, but it’s nothing compared to the pleasure radiating into his core once Louis finds his prostate. 

Harry’s body comes alive like a livewire, every sensation heightened, every nerve on fire, and it’s all he can do to give himself to Louis, clutching at his back and breathing out, ‘my Alpha’. 

It seems those two words spur him on, his heartbeat picking up against Harry’s chest, and when Louis bites gently at his shoulder, Harry comes between them, painting the skin of their abdomens a translucent white. Louis follows right behind him, his knot expanding inside Harry until he can no longer move, and stays pressed close to Harry for his release. The sight of his orgasm reflected on Louis’ face in this light, with every wave of pleasure so clear on his features is an experience, and when he closes his eyes to rest, the image follows him behind closed eyelids. 

Louis rolls them over slowly, letting Harry lie on top of him as their breathing calms down, and wastes no time weaving a hand into Harry’s again, carding his fingers through the damp strands. Harry nuzzles into his hand, feeling the knot tug against his hole with the movement, and sighs contently against his chest when Louis laughs at him and scratches behind his ear. Harry has a distinct feeling he might be purring again, but as long as Louis keeps looking at him the way he is – like Harry is his whole world – he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

*** 

For his semi-final match, Harry promises Louis a blowjob for every underarm serve he plays. Louis wins the match with four underarm aces. 

*** 

On the day of the final, Harry awakes in his hotel room to find Louis curled around him and holding him tight against his chest, warm puffs of air settling on Harry’s neck. It’s early enough, still, a whole hour until they need to be out of the door, and so Harry sinks back into bed, reluctant to think of what the day might bring. The obligatory nerves in his tummy are already making themselves known, but Harry forcefully pushes them away, turning around in Louis’ arms to face him. 

He is still asleep, looking peaceful and smelling soft, more honey than citrus. Harry curls into him, hopes he doesn’t wake him up, but based on the small sound Louis lets out, he doesn’t succeed in being quiet enough. Harry separates them just enough to start pressing feather-light kisses all across Louis’ face, covering his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the underside of Louis’ jaw. 

Louis’ eyes remain closed, but his lips form a slight smile, and Harry is helpless not to trace the curve of it with his index finger. Louis playfully bites at it, and when Harry lets out a yelp and withdraws his finger, Louis finally opens his eyes. They’re clear in the morning light, shining bright at Harry. He starts laughing quietly at Harry’s affronted expression. 

“You’re not funny,” Harry insists, but happily accepts the kiss pressed to his lips, morning breath be damned. With the final day schedule being what it is, between interviews, physio, warm up and the actual match followed by what will hopefully be the winner’s ceremony, they have limited time together today, and Harry has no intention of letting a fact as trivial as physiology get in their way. 

Louis snorts. 

“I’m hilarious,” he responds, biting at the closest body part of Harry’s he can reach – which, unfortunately, happens to be his _other_ index finger. Harry frowns at him sternly. 

“What am I supposed to tell Nick? That I can no longer play tennis because I lost a finger how, exactly?” 

Louis hums, clearly not very concerned about the possible repercussions of his actions. Granted, those repercussions are very unlikely and Harry is being dramatic for the sake of being dramatic, but still. 

“You tell him your Alpha couldn’t stay away from you,” he replies, as if it was that simple, and maybe for him it is. Harry feels the coil of nerves on his tummy move, but for completely different reasons than a minute ago. 

“Say it again,” he asks of him, and Louis obliges immediately. 

“Your Alpha couldn’t stay away from you,” he repeats, emphasising the first two words like he knows Harry wants to hear. 

Harry runs the back of his foot against Louis’ leg where their bodies are tangled beneath the covers, wishing they could stay like this for the entirety of the day. 

“Goes both ways, really,” Harry tells him, and his heart skips a beat at how Louis lights up at his words. 

Their moment is broken when an alarm goes off in the background, letting them know they should be getting up if they want to shower and have breakfast before the press rounds. Harry groans, but at Louis’ nudging gets off the bed and into the shower, Louis following closely behind him. They don’t have the time nor the mindset for anything other than a few soapy kisses under the spray, and from there onwards it’s a rush to make it to the hotel restaurant for a bite. 

They receive a few curious looks from the other players having breakfast around them, the surprise of seeing a finalist so relaxed on the morning of the match evident on their faces, but neither Harry nor Louis bother to comment on it. Instead, they focus on their food and running through the more generic points of the strategy. 

By the time they make it onto the Wimbledon grounds, the anxious ball of nerves in Harry’s stomach has grown in intensity, the anticipation of what’s to come making him on edge. Louis must feel it, too, because just as he’s about to hand Harry off to his team for his media prep, he brings his knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss against them. 

Harry takes a shuddery breath. 

“I was doing so well, not thinking about it, but now I can’t stop. How did you do it last year?” 

Louis looks at him for a long time, mulling over his words. 

“Told myself it wasn’t the last time I would be there, and that helped. That even if I fucked up or lost, it wouldn’t be my last chance to win a Grand Slam.” Harry nods, not responding, sensing Louis had something else to add. “And I also knew that whatever happened, the tournament had given me something better than a win, anyway.” 

He says it so quietly Harry nearly thinks he’s misheard him, but there’s no mistaking the heat behind the words. 

“Yeah, me too,” Harry agrees, but can’t help but rib Louis about it a bit. “You did end up losing, though.” 

Louis laughs, scrunching his nose cutely. “I knew you wouldn’t think of me any less even if I didn’t win. Besides, I won the US Open two months later.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “That’s true. I would have thought less of you if you had _won_ against Federer. No offense, but mate or not, no one wins against him.” 

Louis laughs, squeezing Harry’s fingers lightly, not bothering with a reply to Harry’s statement. 

“You know you’re my champion no matter what, right?” 

“I know,” Harry assures him. Louis has only spent the last year telling him so every day, no matter the match he was playing or if he was playing a match at all. “You’re mine, too.” 

Harry might still be young, might have used up all the luck in the world to get to a Wimbledon final a year after his first Grand Slam debut, but he thinks that even if his lucky streak runs out, he wouldn’t mind too much. He already has the best thing the world of tennis could offer him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Weirdly as I was writing this fic, Nick Kyrgios started posting super cute pics of him and his new gf on insta and I won’t lie and say those didn’t inspire the Larry dynamic in this fic. He calls her his soulmate, so. You can see where I'm coming from. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr at screwstyles


End file.
